


Wide-Eyed Vagabond

by Phasingphoenix



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cinnamon Roll, Healer Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4516293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phasingphoenix/pseuds/Phasingphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mighty and powerful Herald of Andraste turns out to be a rather innocent sort of elf without any mind at all for killing things. Cassandra is surprised, to say the least. How will she explain this to the newly reborn Inquisition?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Endure Not Yet a Breach

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm a little nervous about putting this up, as the Inquisitor is actually a character from one of my original stories that I'm planning to publish. But I like to write about him when I feel bad, and when I get writer's block for other things, I do fan fiction. If it's liked, I may continue posting what I have, but I thought I'd just put the first couple chapters up for now and see how it's received.

His eyes were the boldest green she had ever seen in her life. Even for an elf, such a hue was impressive. That had, initially, been part of her cause for suspicion, for the green of the Fade and the green of his eyes could not possibly be only a mere coincidence. He was the lone survivor of a heart-rending catastrophe and his hand carried the source. There could be no doubt of his guilt.

But then he’d awakened, fully this time, not the half-feverish moments in between bouts of unconsciousness. Now she was looking down into those large green eyes, and all she saw was fear and confusion.

“They’re all dead?” he said in a hushed voice, afraid to speak too loudly. “Every one?”

Her jaw tightened against her sympathy. He was their only true suspect and she couldn’t let that slip away. “Explain this,” she forced out through gritted teeth, holding up the offending appendage.

His eyes grew, if possible, yet wider at the sight of his own hand. “I don’t know,” he said quickly, breathlessly. “I-I wish I did.”

_He wishes he did. He’ll know the meaning of that hereafter._ “Divine Justinia is dead!” she snapped, seizing him by the tunic as all of her frustration and confusion came out in the form of unbridled rage. “How did the Breach come to be? _Answer_!”

“Cassandra, wait,” said Leliana, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. “We need him to help us.”

Cassandra looked at her companion, a woman who knew her probably better than she knew herself. She released her hold on the prisoner, taking a step back before the urge to hit him became overpowering. “There is a Rift at the Temple. Somehow, you are connected - that _thing_ is connected - and we need you.”

The elf was still reeling, still trying to recover from the rapid bouts of panic as they came. “What-” He hesitated, afraid to ask questions now. “What is the Breach?”

This was going to be a long journey. “Leliana, go to the forward camp. I will meet you there.” As the spymaster strode from the cell, Cassandra stepped forward and pulled the prisoner to his feet. “It will be easier if I show you. Come.”

He followed dutifully, if not willingly, although he pulled back when the door opened, averting his brilliant eyes from the equally brilliant sunlight. The Seeker continued to pull him until he’d stepped free of the cell, and then she merely watched as he saw the nightmare in the sky.

And he did view it as a nightmare. His lips parted, air pushing past in a soft exhale that left his shoulders slumped. He stared, unable to even blink, eyes alight with horror and blood draining from his face. Hope seemed to leave him for a moment. If he _had_ done this, perhaps he had not meant for things to be this way.

Even as he watched, the Breach grew and the mark on his hand flared. He shouted from both pain and surprise, falling to his knees to cradle his arms against his chest. The only question in his face was _why?_

“As the Breach grows, so does your mark. And it _is_ killing you,” she said as she knelt before him, her voice far more calm than it had been only minutes ago. “It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

He looked up at her, and again, she imagined she could see his thoughts in his eyes. He saw answers in her, and for a brief moment she hoped that she could give those to him. An elf who wore his heart so freely on his sleeve couldn’t possibly be so nefarious as to have attempted this, could he?

But the mark still glowed upon his hand.

“If there’s anything I can do, I will do it,” he said insistently.

Her brow furrowed. She hadn’t expected such immediate acquiescence. “Then you-”

“This makes it my responsibility, yes?” he said, holding up his hand, and the question wasn’t rhetorical.

“Yes.”

“It does. If I can stop more people from dying, I swear I will do everything you ask.”

She was quite plainly incredulous. 

And she grew yet more incredulous the further on they traveled. He was confused and hurt when she paraded him in front of the pilgrims who’d traveled to Haven, not guilty in the least. He did as she asked and no more, speaking only when the situation demanded. So many questions were poised on his tongue, but he seemed prepared to wait until the proper time. It got to the point at which she actually felt sorry for him when he would collapse to the ground, finding herself unable to imagine what sort of pain he’d been forced to endure. 

Some of that sympathy lifted at the first demon encounter. 

Of _course_ he was a mage.

“Put down the staff!” she snapped, sword at the ready.

His eyes widened and he looked at the weapon. “I - I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’ve heard that lie before,” she said, not letting her guard down even an inch.

He frowned. “Wouldn’t you think, if my intent was to hurt you, that I’d have done it by now? Mages don’t always need a staff as a channel.”

The elf made an excellent point. She let protocols fade for a moment, remembering the singularity of their situation, and sheathed her sword. “I suppose you’re right. I cannot protect you here, and we need you. Keep the staff.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, making sure to point the weapon’s head away from her. 

“Let us continue, quickly.”

She recalled the contempt with which she’d first regarded him, and now she was letting him have a weapon. Throughout the rest of the journey, fighting more demons, feeling him put a barrier around her in the heat of battle, one new thought continued to resonate in Cassandra’s mind, and the more it developed, the more it began to eat at her.

She had been wrong. 

And, as she watched his eyes light up when Solas showed him he could close a Rift, she knew she had been _very_ wrong. 

“Glad we got that sorted out. Thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

Ah, there was the familiar contempt, working its way back into her chest like an old friend. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, lip curling oh so slightly. 

“Slaughtering demons, your holiness, so don’t complain,” said the dwarf, adjusting his gloves casually as though not ten seconds ago he’d been standing just beneath a crack in the world, which had then been closed by a small, gangly elf. 

“Who are you?” asked said elf, cocking his head curiously.

“Varric Tethras, storyteller, merchant, marksman. At your service.” He gave the elf a smile, already seeming to genuinely like what he saw. “I’m a prisoner, like you.”

“I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Obviously, that is no longer necessary,” Cassandra said stiffly. 

“Oh, come on, Seeker, don’t pretend I’m not at least a _little_ useful right now.” He turned back to the prisoner. “She thinks I’m such a terrible person.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, all the same,” he said honestly.

Solas chuckled. “You might be changing your mind on that in the future.”

“Ah, Chuckles, you, too? I’m sure we’ll have some great bonding time down in the valley.” He was smiling, unphased by the insults and teasing directed at him. “So come on, Seeker, introduce us to your new kidnapee.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but a horrible realization came upon her. She hesitated, glancing at the elf, and he spoke quickly. “My name is Olwé, of clan Lavellan.” 

But the damage had been done. Varric looked at her, utterly aghast. “You don’t even know his _name_?”

“There wasn’t exactly time,” said Olwé.

“And you’re _defending_ her?” The dwarf couldn’t have been more surprised if another Rift opened up in his face. “Seeker, did you accidentally make friends with the convict? You know better.”

She made a noise of both disgust and impatience as she turned to Solas. “What do you make of him?” she asked, yanking the conversation back to the business at hand.

“He is a mage, but I have difficulty imagining any mage having this sort of power.” Solas looked at the prisoner, curiosity alight in his grey eyes. “He is not the source of this, though he could be the solution.”

“Did this mark… whatever it is….” Olwé looked down at his hand, brow furrowed. “Is _this_ what started everything?”

“Possibly,” Solas said with a casual shrug. “The important thing at present is that it has the ability to close these Rifts, perhaps even the Breach itself.”

“With the sort of power it took to create it, I shudder to think how much is necessary to close it,” Cassandra said. 

“Then we look to the largest Rift first. Closing that might be the key to closing the Breach as a whole.”

“So we head for the Temple,” she said with a stiff nod. “Let us meet up with Leliana at the camp, and we will proceed from there. We have little time.”

She and Solas moved off immediately, but the prisoner lingered behind. She looked back, a reprimand at her lips when the sight before her gave her pause. Varric was lingering with him, face open, curious, patiently awaiting the young elf’s words. The prisoner had as yet never looked so lonely as he did now, and Varric seemed to sense this. 

“Key,” the elf murmured after a moment, green eyes fixed on the ground. “Key, everyone keeps saying key. Is the Breach supposed to be a door?”

Maker, she hadn’t really thought about that. From the way Varric’s eyes widened, neither had he. The Breach had caused an explosion at an important conclave, had allowed demons to descend upon the living. On their own, those ideas were terrible enough. It hadn’t occurred to her that someone might have been trying to get _into_ the Fade.

“Hold on to that thought, Sunshine,” Varric said, pushing lightly on the prisoner’s arm. “We’ll put our heads together _after_ the demons have stopped rampaging across the mountainside.”

Cassandra could live with that advice for now. One problem at a time was more than enough.


	2. Steward to Fate

“ _What_ is he doing in his own quarters?” demanded Chancellor Roderick, nearly frothing at the mouth. “He should be in the cells! Or at the very least, in chains!”

“How much damage will an unconscious elf do, Chancellor?” Leliana asked, one dangerous eyebrow raised.

“He’s not simply an unconscious elf! He is a mage, and he bears the mark of the Fade on his hand! The fact that he is not currently with the waking only makes him that much more unstable.” He leaned across the wooden table, hints of fear mingling with his pious anger. “ _You_ arrested him, Seeker, and now you’re allowing him to walk in our midst?”

“Things changed, Chancellor. I’d hoped you would have seen it,” Cassandra said with folded arms. The situation was as strange for her as it was for the Chancellor, but she was handling it with a good deal more grace (though grace was not always one of her better qualities). When the prisoner had closed the Rift, he'd done so using much of his energy reserves, and had collapsed shortly thereafter. Cassandra had given the order for him to be brought to bed, and the fever that had consumed him afterward had strengthened that resolve. He was small, frail at first glance, and she could not afford to let their only salvation slip away from exhaustion. “He closed the first Rift and several others along the way. I see no malice in him.”

“No malice?" Roderick said, amazed. "The evidence all points towards him! For all you know, he could have planned it this way!”

At that moment, the door to the meeting room opened. The small elf - _Olwé_ , Cassandra remembered - entered, still looking a tad groggy and his messy dark hair even more of a mess. He opened his mouth, but Roderick beat him to the first word. “Chain him! And have him prepared to be sent to Val Royeaux for execution!”

The order was so far out of the Chancellor’s league, so clearly a desperate attempt for him to grasp whatever power was available to him, that Cassandra nearly rolled her eyes. “Disregard that order and leave us,” she told the guards. Her tone was calm, controlled, a far cry from Roderick’s outburst, and the guards submitted to her. 

As the doors closed once more, Roderick narrowed his eyes at her. “You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.”

“ _Seeker of Truth_ , Roderick,” she said shortly. “That means I don’t jump to the nearest conclusion. Usually,” she added, looking at the elf.

He seemed confused as to his role in this conversation. “I did everything I could to close the Breach at the time,” he said hesitantly. “It almost killed me, I think. It might be a while before I can try again.”

“But you survived,” said the Chancellor with contempt. “How utterly convenient.”

“ _Someone_ was behind the explosion at the conclave,” said Leliana. “Someone Most Holy did not expect. That _wasn’t_ our elven friend.”

“Divine Justinia called out to him for help when it all began, I heard her voice and his,” Cassandra said. “There was another inflicting the damage.”

Roderick spluttered, looking between the Divine’s Hands and the tiny elf. “You’re suggesting that he was merely at the wrong place at the wrong time? That all that he is was an _accident_?”

“Providence,” Cassandra said firmly, and she saw the elf’s eyebrows raise. “The Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour.”

Olwé had no idea how to respond. He looked at the others in the room, at the chancellor slowly growing more red, at the two women looking at him with determined hope, and he gave a small shrug. “Maybe.”

“The fact remains, there is still a Breach and his mark is still our only means of closing it,” Leliana said firmly.

“That is not for you to decide!” Roderick snapped.

With an irritated exhale, Cassandra lifted a heavy tome off a side table and brought it forward, letting it drop with a _slam_ between those gathered. She could admit that the flash of unease in Roderick’s eye pleased her. “This is a writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act,” she said. “As of this moment, I pronounce the Inquisition of old officially reborn. We will close the Breach, we will find whoever did this, and we will bring them to justice, _with or without your support_.”

Roderick glared down at the elf for a moment, as though the words had come from his mouth, then he turned back to Cassandra. “Then you shall not have it,” he said lowly before storming from the room. 

The door slamming felt like a physical blow. She turned away, all the strength of her words fading as she realized that now there was nowhere to go. Without Chantry support, did the Inquisition even have a foundation? Sharing a look with Leliana, she grimaced and realized that she might have made another mistake in what was becoming a long line.

“Erm… sorry, I’ve only just woken up, and I’m not entirely sure what’s happening,” said the elf, drawing her attention back to him. 

What a strange creature he was proving to be. After arresting him with the full intent of having him hanged, she had slowly returned a prisoner’s freedom, trusted him with her life for even just a brief moment, _stood up for a Maker-damned mage to a Chantry clerk_ , and now she had made him the forefront of a new organization without actually asking first. Perhaps it was time for some apologies. “I was wrong about you, Olwé,” she said, taking a step towards him. “You are not our destruction, but our salvation.”

He raised his eyebrows, blinking those large green eyes. “Oh. If that’s all.”

Leliana chuckled. “You’ve been very brave, facing demons before you’ve even had any idea what’s happening. Cassandra tells me you wish to help.”

The surprise faded as his expression turned earnest. “I do,” he said. “The Keeper of my clan told me to attend the conclave because its resolution would affect more than just mages and Templars. She was more right than she knew. And I was _sent_ , you see? Even if it wasn’t specifically by a god, I was pointed in that direction. Now I have this, and I know where my place is.” He looked down at he hand, watching the glowing patterns for a moment.

“Would that we were all so certain of ourselves,” Cassandra said with some bemusement. 

“I’m not _certain_ of anything. I….” He shrugged, floundering for words. “I’m good at finding paths. That’s why I’m the Keeper’s First. It just feels right to put my feet where I put them, so I just continue on.”

Leliana cocked her head at him, seeming to appraise him with a new light. “You are an interesting being, Master Lavellan. Perhaps this is providence after all.”

He gave a shrug just as he’d done several minutes before. “Maybe.”

“If it truly is,” Cassandra said slowly, “then I’m glad. Will you stand with us, and help us to stop the chaos before it is too late?”

The question was a heavy one, laden with nothing but hardship and responsibility, but she knew what his answer would be before he said it. He didn’t need to say it. He merely looked at her with those intense eyes and tightly clasped her hand. 

So was the Inquisition reborn.

. . .

Solas found the new Dalish elf an oddity.

Olwé was actually rather young to have been sent so far by his Keeper. He was only in his early twenties, though it was not to youth that Solas attributed his boundless curiosity. He was genuinely hungry for knowledge and had discovered Solas to be a useful font. He was particularly amazed to find that a person could practically live in the Fade, spending more time dreaming there than walking here.

“You’re a bit of a nomad, then, aren’t you?” Olwé asked after the concept had been explained to him.

“I am, yes, but not in the way the Dalish are,” Solas replied. “You hold very little of the great histories that exist, and your wanderings are designed more to keep yourselves away from the rest of the world.”

“Ah, true enough,” he replied. “I was lucky to be born into Clan Lavellan. We have more dealings with humans than most, and we’ve even spoken with small groups of dwarves on occasion. But… yes, you’re right, I believe sometimes we close ourselves off a bit too much.” He leaned back against the low stone wall, head tilted back as he looked up at the sky. “What’s the use of trying to live in history when things like this happen?”

“History is important,” Solas said. “I don’t mean you _shouldn’t_ try to remember. I mean you don’t remember enough.”

“Well… that’s not quite our fault, is it?” he said hesitantly. “I don’t mean to go on a lecture or some such thing, but honestly, what are we to do? All of the history you speak of was taken from us. The mighty empire has fallen, and we’re _not_ going back to that again. But we _can_ write new histories for ourselves. I’d rather that than be locked in a constant state of tradition for the sake of tradition.”

“And you would join city elves in their alienages and lose all sense of identity in favor of progress?” Solas returned, an edge creeping into his voice. “Even the slim connection you still have to the ancestors would be lost entirely. Who would you be if not for your own history?”

Olwé closed his mouth, and Solas wished he wouldn’t. Debate was far preferable to submission, especially on a subject like this. "For what it's worth, it helps that you try," he said. 

The elf nodded. "But, for the moment, that is neither here nor there. First we have to save everyone, then we can worry about how good we are." 

Solas nodded in agreement, then straightened up as he looked beyond Olwé's shoulder. "I think I should take my leave now," he said, then disappeared into his small house with a slight bow. 

Olwé turned, then saw the approaching newcomer. It was Varric, the dwarf with the impressive crossbow. He did not have the crossbow now, and had removed his large overcoat to reveal the fine red tunic underneath. "Hey, Sunshine," he said, thumbs tucked into his belt. "You got a minute?"

Olwé offered him a smile. "Always. Something on your mind, Varric?"

The dwarf chuckled. "Yeah, a huge hole in the sky, but that's not really a fun topic. I was actually wondering how _you_ were holding up."

The elf seemed slightly surprised that he would ask. "I'm alright."

"Really? You've gone from being a prisoner to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day." 

Olwé shrugged. "It didn't seem quite so large a leap when it was happening."

Varric shook his head. "You're tough, kid, I'll give you that. If you ever _do_ start having problems, you can go ahead and let me know. Demons start falling out of the sky, everybody needs someone to lean on."

Olwé leaned against the wall again, looking at Varric curiously. "Why did you stay? Cassandra said you were free to go, there's no reason for you to remain."

"Okay, you weren't there for the beginning of this, so I'll forgive your assumptions," he said. "The temple _exploded_ , kid. Fire and brimstone if I've ever seen it, and that was from a mile away. Nightmares came running in, and then all we could do was hold our own. Yeah, that's over for now, but even I'm not callous enough to just walk away."

"That's rather noble of you," Olwé said. "If it's any consolation, I'm glad you're staying. You seem to be a good friend to have."

Varric laughed outright at this. "There you go with the assumptions again. Don't make judgments until you know a thing or two."

"I know you're brave," said the elf. "No one who isn't would disregard that he was a prisoner and help those in need. And I know you genuinely care about people, and that's the sort of person I'd like to have around."

Maker, this kid was a delicate flower in the middle of a hurricane. "Ah, quit it, Sunshine, you're making me blush," he said, waving a large hand. "Be careful, though. I've written enough tragedies to know where this is headed. There are heroes all over, but this... a hole in the sky...." He looked up at the glowing green Breach, shaking his head. How was such a tiny person expected to close something so big? "That's gonna take a miracle."

Olwé looked at him for a long moment, not frightened or nervous, but... determined? No. Unafraid. "Thank you, Varric."

"Yeah, don't mention it," he said as he walked away.


	3. How Lame a Cripple This World Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People seem to like it, so here's the Hinterlands.

The Inquisition members dismounted at the first camp in the Hinterlands, and Olwé was at the head of the group. Cassandra had been rather impressed by his ability to find his way to the location with very little help from scouts. It seemed he was as adept at locating paths as he'd said.

He looked around, waiting for someone to tell him what to do, when a pretty dwarf woman approached him. "Andraste's Herald?" she said, looking at him curiously. "I'm Scout Harding. It's an honor to meet you, sir. I've heard all sorts of stories about you."

Olwé was taken aback. "Really?" he laughed. "I've barely done anything yet."

"Hardly," Cassandra said. "Do not underestimate your worth in this time."

"It's been a rough ride for everyone," Harding said. "That someone can close the Rifts at all is a blessing."

"I'm told that's what I'll be doing here," he said.

"Well, that's certainly part of it," she said. "We've also tried to locate Master Dennet for you so we can get some horses, but he's been hard to pin down. Best we know, he's holed up on his farm west of Redcliffe, but he probably won't leave until the rebellion's been calmed down."

"Ah, yes," said the elf, expression turning sad. "Tell me about that, if you would."

She shook her head, equally disheartened. "I grew up around these parts. To see it torn apart like this...." She sighed. "There are mages and Templars camped out all over the place. They're attacking each other and any civilians that get in their way. There are a lot of refugees at the Crossroads, so you might want to go there and see if they need help."

He nodded. "I might see my way there first, help whoever I can."

"The effort would be greatly appreciated, but be careful, sir," she insisted. "We need you. Try not to get yourself killed."

He smiled again, the expression never far from his face. "Well, that would be the idea, wouldn't it? I'll see you another time, Scout Harding." He gave a small bow, surprising her, then started off out of the camp. "We have quite the list of tasks, friends," he said lightly to his companions. "We had best get started."

"The Rifts are a priority," Solas said. "If they are closed, the balance of the Fade here will be mostly restored, and that can serve to alleviate the chaos."

"But the refugees are in need of help now," Cassandra said. "Leliana received a message from the Crossroads. They have no protection and both Templars and mages have been wearing them to nothing."

"Why don't we let our leader decide?" Varric said. "He's been leading the way so far, why not let him keep going?"

They turned to Olwé, who looked back at them with slight surprise. "Well... I was intending to help the refugees first," he said, looking apologetically at Solas. "The Rifts, according to our maps, are spread out across the Hinterlands. The Crossroads is just over that way." He pointed to the west, down a road only he could see. "I'd rather the Inquisition gain a foothold there, first. Then, if we need help and supplies while we close the Rifts, we have them." 

"A sound decision," Cassandra said.

Solas was less convinced, but he didn't argue. "Then I implore you to move quickly."

Olwé smiled slightly. "To be thorough is to have a steady pace, my friend." He adjusted his grip on his staff, then set off to the west. 

As they walked, Cassandra had a slowly building feeling that something was not quite right. After a short time, she realized it was because of the Herald's attitude. He was walking cheerily, as though this were a stroll through the woods rather than a grand mission to save all of Thedas. He didn't even seem concerned about the battles surely about to come within the hour. "Are you not anxious, Olwé?" she asked.

He look back at her, raising an eyebrow. "Why should I be?"

She wasn't quite sure how to answer, because wasn't it obvious? "We are in dangerous territory, war-torn lands. Regardless of demons, the mages will surely pose a massive problem."

He actually smiled. "I'm not afraid of things that I can touch. The Breach, yes, that's quite another matter. But demons are souls in the wrong place and people - be they mages, Templars, or refugees - only need help. That's what I do, Cassandra. I help people."

"What exactly do you _do_ , Sunshine?" Varric asked. "I know you're the Keeper's first and all, but what does that mean for you?"

"Oh, well, it's different for everyone," Olwé said. "Every Keeper is responsible for keeping the culture of the clan alive, but they can do that in a variety of ways. I learned healing even before I came into my magic. I see an herb or a berry and I just... know what I can do with it."

"In the same way that you know where to go when you travel?" Solas asked.

He nodded. "Quite similar, yes."

Varric looked between the elves. "Is that a Keeper thing, or...."

"No," said Solas, and even he sounded surprised. "It is a gift. Useful and convenient, but rare, if not unique."

"Perhaps," Olwé said. "I only know what I'm good at, and I'm good at getting people through things. I'm not afraid because I'm really just doing what I already know."

Cassandra looked at him, filled with a sense that she couldn't possibly know this elf's mind. "You are far wiser than anyone first gave you credit for."

"He's Andraste's Herald. He's _supposed_ to be smarter than most," Varric said.

Olwé began blushing mightily and he looked away. "Yes, well, I hear a commotion ahead. We must be close." He forged onward, moving so that he pulled away from everyone. Such a bashful creature couldn't possibly perform the feats asked of him.

The "commotion" was akin to a battle. Inquisition soldiers had already arrived and were fighting against mages and Templars trying to claim the area for their own. Refugees crouched hidden behind rocks or inside houses. Cassandra looked, and the cheer was gone from Olwé's face, though she did not see fear. She saw sadness. "This shouldn't be happening," he said quietly. 

Varric let loose an arrow behind him, cutting down a mage who was at the point of killing an Inquisition soldier. "It is what it is, Sunshine," he said darkly, taking aim again. "You can't always help everyone."

The Seeker saw that Olwé understood this, that he knew he would need to join the fight, but he wasn't happy about it. He descended the hill to the Crossroads and raised his staff.

. . .

He had done well, despite his lack of interest in harming others. The battle had ended with minimal losses and injuries in their group. She could see doing something so trying had worn him out, but he approached Mother Giselle with a gentle smile and open mind. He promised he would heed her, that he would attempt to convince the Chantry in Val Royeaux of his goals. Cassandra could tell that even after only five minutes of conversation, the kernel of hope within the revered mother had grown, fed and warmed by Olwé's nurturing. She knew because she herself had felt the same. 

He bid her farewell, then returned to his group. "She believes that meeting members of the Chantry will benefit us," he said.

Cassandra nodded. "Her logic is sound. Even a little doubt will aid us in this controversy."

"Josephine will likely be essential in this," he said. "We ought to send a message to Haven and let her know so she can prepare."

"That can be done."

"Please! Someone!"

Olwé turned towards the panicked voice, brow furrowing. An elven man stood nearby, and when Olwé caught his eye, he hurried forward. "What's the matter, friend?" he asked.

"It's my wife. She has this sickness, sometimes she can't breathe," he said, speaking in a quick, trembling voice. "My son makes a potion that can help, but he's joined the cult in the hills. Please, _please_ find him if you can. I can't leave here on my own, and I certainly can't leave my wife."

Olwé hesitated, and Cassandra got the impression, though she could hardly believe it, that he was about to say no. "Do you... would you mind if I took a look at her?" he asked. "I may be able to help."

The man exhaled. "If you can do _anything_ , I'd be grateful."

Olwé nodded. "Right. Bring me to her." 

"My house is just over here." The elf turned and walked swiftly to a nearby hovel, nearly running, though Olwé kept up with him easily. They entered the house, whose door was already open, and the two elven men entered first. Olwé located the man's wife without needing guidance and he knelt beside her bed, hand gently feeling her forehead. 

"Em-emma lath?" she murmured, her breath weak and rattling.

"My name is Olwé," he said, squeezing her hand. "You're going to be alright, don't worry. What's your name?"

"Leera," she rasped.

"Pleasure to meet you, Leera. I'm here to help you." He looked into her eyes, held a hand over her mouth to measure her breathing, and then he merely listened to the sound for a moment. "You're in luck, my friend," he said to the husband. "I do know what this is. It's not a common ailment, but I've seen it in city elves before. If you'll give me just a moment." He pulled his leather satchel over his head and rummaged through it, extracting tools and herbs. Cassandra saw a lot of elfroot as well as a fair amount of blood lotus. 

If she had thought he seemed capable before, it was nothing to how he moved now. Every action was certain, calculated, practiced. He didn't need notes or a recipe, he simply looked at the herbs and determined what he needed, then mixed them together. Some sort of powder was used, as was a large quantity of a liquid. He blended it all with bowl and pestle, then added a small sprig of mint to the mixture. When he deemed it ready, he poured it all into a glass vial and gently urged Leera to drink it. 

"It will take a moment," he told everyone, placing the empty vial on a side table. He continued to hold her hand, squeezing every so often when she coughed, and then her breathing began to deepen, became easier. The tension in her face cleared. Olwé smiled and got to his feet. "She'll be alright," he said, turning to the husband. "Although I will find your son. Even if he has a mind to leave, he ought to leave a stock of such potions with you."

"We don't always have the ingredients for such things," said the husband, shoulders slumped in his relief. 

Olwé raised his eyebrows. "Oh, that's no problem." He began pulling the ingredients back out of his bag, leaving nearly all the elfroot and blood lotus he had on the table. 

The husband's eyes grew wide. "But, sir, surely-"

"I can find more, don't worry," he laughed. "My work takes me all across these lands, I have more than enough chances to collect."

The elf's jaw tightened. "I have no way to pay you."

"And that's good, because I don't want you to," Olwé said. "I'll find your son, please don't worry about payment. This is all I've wanted to do today, so thank _you_."

The elf was so stunned that he had nothing more to say. Olwé merely patted his shoulder, then retreated from the house.

"Sunshine," Varric said weakly when they were outside, "could you try to be a little _less_ selfish? I mean, wow, you didn't even give him your firstborn."

Olwé laughed. "I told you, this is what I do. I've never needed anything, so I give my things to everyone else."

Solas regarded him quietly for a moment, then said, "All the same, your generosity is commendable. It may slow us, but that is a worthy trade for the aid you bring to others. The Inquisition may yet become a force to be reckoned with merely through devotion of commoners alone."

"Speaking of which," said Olwé, "we ought to continue on. Rifts to close, bandits to clear out. Now we have a son to find along with a strange cult in the hills." He tilted his head, thinking over the list. "We'd best be getting to it."

Cassandra wasn't sure whether to love the Herald or fear him.


	4. Three Sins in Killing Three

The Iron Bull was a Qunari mercenary built like a wall and equally as immovable. He wielded a large ax, its length greater than two dwarves. He roamed with the Chargers, beat the snot out of whoever he was pointed at, and he got every job done good and well. It was said that Bull's Chargers were the best mercs in Thedas, that they themselves could be an army if they wanted, could probably take a small country.

So when he made the decision to promise himself to the Inquisition, he'd thought someone of equal merit would be at the helm.

What he found instead was a scrawny elf shorter than his mage's staff grinning from ear to pointed ear. 

"The Iron Bull, I take it?" he asked, face flushed and wet from the rain, breath coming in quick puffs of vapor. 

"Yeah, the horns usually give it away," he said, for the first time entirely uncertain what to make of the person in front of him. Was he some sort of puppet? It would explain the unbelievable title, and it wouldn't be too far-fetched to say someone would try to manipulate the public this way. But he'd done some digging on the Inquisition, and their whole MO was that they were honest and _not_ trying to manipulate people. "You want a drink?" he asked.

The elf cocked his head. "Now? Immediately after battle?"

"Why not? This is the good stuff, puts some hair on your chest. Well, maybe not yours. Just don't spill any of it, you'll kill all the grass."

His eyes widened, but he looked more delighted than afraid. "I don't think I'll be taking any of that, but thank you for the tremendous offer."

Bull's brow furrowed. "Right."

"Is now a good time to talk?" he asked. "I've seen the way your people fight, I think you'll be wonderful additions to the Inquisition."

Bull actually laughed at that. "Wow, we haven't even talked numbers and you're already hiring me."

"Will that be a problem?" he asked, blinking. "Wait, how much are you, exactly? Because if we don't have enough-"

"Gold will take care of itself," Bull said, waving a massive hand. Vashedon, if he wasn't such an upstanding gentleman, he'd probably be able to break this kid with two words. "No offense, but, uh, how exactly did you come to be the Herald of Andraste?"

The elf opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, his Seeker companion stepped forward. "He is capable," she said firmly. "That is all you need to know." 

He looked at her for a moment. Now, the Seeker he could judge pretty well. Tough, serious, ready to get shit done. She wasn't the type to mess around with politics and clever ruses, and she definitely wasn't the lying type. She meant what she said. If she could give this little twig a glowing recommendation, then there were some things Bull needed to learn.

"Alright," he said, looking at the elf. "Let's talk."

. . .

Solas opted to remain back at camp, now that another capable member had been added to the immediate party. Olwé didn't seem to mind this at all, for the Iron Bull had become the new object of his fascination.

"So you've been the head of this mercenary group for years, yes?" Olwé asked as they prepared to deal with the Blades of Hassarian.

"Yeah. Pretty good little band," Bull replied. "They haven't let me down yet, and I don't think they plan to."

"Krem is grand," he continued, making the Qunari grin. "Polite, quiet, very likable. And then I see him in battle and it's like a completely different person."

"Yeah, he's good like that," Bull told him. "Glad somebody else sees it."

"Ser," called the requisitions officer, approaching Olwé. "I've got the amulet you requested." 

The elf took the item with a hearty word of thanks, then looked it over. "I hope this does what it's meant to," he said quietly, looping it over his neck.

Bull looked down at him. "And what's that?"

The smile was gone as Olwé readied himself. "Preventing any more bloodshed. Are you ready to leave?" 

The Qunari nodded. "Just say the word."

"Right, I'll find Varric and Cassandra, and then we'll go to the fort." 

. . .

Bull saw with his own eyes as the mercenaries spotted the approaching elf, made to draw their weapons, and then stayed their own hands, looking at him with confusion and disbelief. He knew they let him pass because Olwé wore the Mercy's Crest, but there was also a certain amount of respect for the tiny elf daring to challenge a leader. A tiny elf who walked with a massive Qunari, a Seeker of Truth, and a dwarven archer, no less. 

The gates opened and Olwé stepped into the camp. Because of the medallion around his neck, no one approached. The leader stood at the far end before his chair. For a moment, Bull experienced a moment of unease. The leader was a _big_ guy, and though he himself could probably take him, Olwé was literally half his size and armed with nothing but a stick.

"So you dare to challenge the rightful leader of the Blades?" the man growled, glaring down at Olwé.

The elf, to Bull's surprise, showed no fear whatsoever as he looked up. His staff was held like a walking stick, planted firmly in the ground to show he would not be moved. A shrimpy creature like him should have pissed himself by now. "We don't have to fight," he said, loud enough that his voice carried. "You've killed some of my men, and I don't see a reason for any more blood to be spilt."

The leader's lip curled, then he spat down on the elf. Varric had to physically stop Cassandra from charging forward. Even Bull was bothered.

"You have no power here, tiny! These are my men! If you want 'em, come and take 'em!"

Now Bull was going to act. The Hassarian leader was going to take a swing at Olwé with that huge sword of his and the elf was _not moving_. Bull had drawn his weapon faster than the leader, could probably knock him over before he hurt the kid, but then he stopped. The Hassarian leader did, too, although more abruptly, having smashed into the barrier Olwé had swiftly constructed. 

The elf looked at him, face deadly serious as both hands gripped his staff. "We don't need this. Neither of us does. One more chance, I'm here to talk, not to fight."

The leader scowled. "Then you've come to the wrong place!" With a loud cry, he drew back his sword and slammed it against the magical barrier so hard that Olwé actually stumbled back. Bull had had enough, and it seemed Cassandra had, too. The Qunari took a moment to yank Olwé back while the Seeker charged. Varric fired a shot. It took longer than Bull thought it would, considering it was three on one, but eventually the leader fell to the ground to never get up again.

A growling noise sounded from behind. Bull whirled, seeing two mabari advancing on Olwé. Again, the idiot wasn't backing down, wasn't afraid. "Get back!" Bull snapped, but Olwé held a hand up. He spoke to the dogs, using the words of his own tongue and a soothing voice. He held out his palm, walking slowly towards them. Gradually, the snarling stopped and the dogs laid down before him, noses to paws. 

"What in the name of...." Varric trailed off, shaking his head. 

"I _can_ win sometimes," Olwé said quietly, stroking the snout of one of the dogs. He still seemed sad, however, a bit frustrated. 

One of the Blades mercenaries approached the elf, and Bull's hand tensed around his weapon. The man, however, bore no sword for the moment. "You have challenged our leader and succeeded," he said in a voice bordering on monotony, surprising considering what had just happened. "The Blades of Hassarian are yours to command."

"So you'll work for the Inquisition now?" Olwé asked, getting to his feet.

"No, we work for you," he replied. Then he glanced at the elf's companions. "Although, for all intents and purposes, that's probably the same thing. We should actually be thanking you. He was a terrible leader, and the dogs seem to believe you'll be a good deal better. We tend to have a lot of faith in our mabari."

"As well you should," Olwé said with a faint smile. "I look forward to working with you further. I'll have my people in Haven contact you."

The man gave a slight bow and stepped away. As they passed through the camp towards the gates, Bull noticed how the mercs looked at Olwé. Sure, they looked at his companions with appreciation for their skill, but they looked upon the elf with respect and a little bit of awe, the kind that could make somebody seem untouchable. He'd made an offer, made it more than once. He had mercy, but his followers did not. That on its own might have been grounds for doubt, because he didn't want to fight at all, was too faint of heart. But everyone had seen the dogs. The faint of heart didn't stare down a pair of vicious hounds, and an idiot didn't achieve submission. He had his limits, but instead of overcoming them, he just found ways around them.

Bull finally got a read on the kid. He was a hero for the sake of saving people, and nothing was going to stop him.


	5. Moving of the Earth Brings Harms and Fears

Varric had been expecting a lot of things when the bright-eyed Herald had announced they were going to speak with the mages in Redcliffe. Exactly zero of his expectations had included a magister taking over the village. 

Olwé, true to form, had played it off in his stride. There were no demands of “Why did you lie to me? What’s going on here?” There was only the calm, “Then may I speak with the person who _is_ in charge?”

And then, because everyone from Tevinter had an uncanny sense of dramatic timing, the magister came swooping into the tavern. He was pleasant, as far as magisters went, as far as it suited him. He talked with ease, like he knew he was the most powerful thing in the room and no one could stop him. Varric knew the magister, this Alexius, thought Olwé was exactly as naive and weak as he looked. Varric and the others knew better.

"I'm so glad to meet a man of good sense," Alexius said as he and Olwé took seats opposite of each other. "I have heard of your accomplishments. Facing the Chantry in Val Royeaux, closing Rifts across Thedas. And now you want an army of mages to help close the Breach. Quite the to-do list, if I may say so."

"Well, we don't think small in the Inquisition," Olwé said with a pleasant smile. "Tell me about the arrangements we can make, and then we'll...." He trailed off, frowning as he watched Felix, Alexius' son, approach the table. He was walking slowly, slightly hunched, then the elf sprang to his feet in time to catch him, though due to his size he stumbled slightly. "Whoa, there. Are you alright? Do you need a seat?"

The young man straightened up, grabbing hold of Olwé's hand for support. He was blinking, as though his vision was clearing. "No, no... sorry, I - I don't know what came over me."

Alexius was on his feet in a moment, pulling his son from Olwé's arms. "Felix, are you ill? Come with me, I'll get your powders." He flashed a quick, forced smile at Olwé, already leading the man from the tavern. "I apologize for the interruption. We will continue this another time, and I look forward to it." 

Varric watched him shut the door, eyes narrowed. Something didn't feel right, and it wasn't the lingering scent of blood magic in the air. He looked over at the Herald to get his thoughts, then raised his eyebrows. Olwé was holding a crumpled note in his hand, looking at it curiously. "He gave this to me when he fell," he said, brow slightly furrowed. "'Meet me in the Chantry. You're in danger.'"

The Iron Bull made a sound like a scoff. "Just like Vints to do something underhanded like that. I say we don't go."

"I agree," Cassandra said. "There is little to be gained from walking into a trap."

"And littler still to be gained from playing along with the magister," Olwé said, looking at his three friends. "It's worth looking into, at the least."

Varric was a little surprised that the elf wasn't taking the safe route. "Well, well, well. Sunshine has a daring streak. You think you can handle a little clandestine meeting with some Tevinter mages?"

Olwé looked him in the eye. "Alexius has his own agenda. The intent was practically pouring off of him. Felix is just worried. If he's worried, I have a mind to know what's going on."

Cassandra's mouth tightened, but she gave a short nod. "I see. If you go, we will go with you."

The Iron Bull looked between them, one eyebrow raised, then he shrugged his massive shoulders. "Well, things go south, at least I can squash some mages. No offense, boss."

Olwé gave the Qunari an odd look, then began heading for the door. Varric couldn't blame him. For a guy supposed to know the ins and outs of people, the Iron Bull had a habit of shooting his mouth off. 

Just as Olwé got to the door, yet _another_ bystander stopped him. This shit happened every ten minutes, and it was almost always someone about to ask for something. The Herald had a huge well of compassion and patience, and that was all well and good. But Varric mostly enjoyed taking bets with Bull to see when the kid would finally tell somebody no, and the manner in which it would happen. 

"Maker's breath... are you really here to help us?" asked the interrupting elf, the same one who had informed them of the magister's presence at Redcliffe's gates.

"Is that so hard to believe?" Olwé asked with his trademark gentle smile.

"Well… people don’t usually help people like us. Mages, I mean. Especially not elves.”

Varric almost felt a hint of success. That had finally done it. Olwé’s smile faded, replaced by a look of confusion and slight disbelief. The poor boy was utterly lost. “But I… am a mage,” he said weakly. “And an elf.”

The stranger raised his eyebrows, then nodded quickly. “Well, yes, yes, I can see that. Everyone can. But, look at you, you’re running about with the Inquisition, striking deals and making plans. It’s far more different for you.”

“But it’s not d….” He trailed off, at a complete loss for words while Varric and Bull snickered behind him. He let out a breath. “I actually need to go right now. I’m glad I could be of some assistance.”

“Maker go with you, sir.” 

Olwé raised only a hand in acknowledgement, then stepped out into the sunlight. When Varric stopped next to him, the elf seemed to be trying to clear a dizziness from his head, staring at the ground as he took several deep breaths. “You okay, Sunshine?” he asked. “Too much ale in the air? Or is it the billowing smoke from the fire?”

Olwé exhaled, expression just as lonely as it had been for a moment the day Varric met him. “What do people see when they look at me?” he asked quietly. “You saw that elf in there. He didn’t see himself in me, and being a mage and an elf are part of what I am. If that’s so easily forgotten… who am I?” He glanced over. “To them, I mean. I think… I’m pretty sure I know who I am.”

Varric let out a puff of air. Hoo boy, this kid was starting to feel the pressure. “You’re asking really big questions, Sunshine,” he said. “And that was one elf. Don’t burn the book for one bad review.”

“What I am is simple,” he said. “I’m a healer. I make things better to the best of my ability. I empathize with people because I _am_ a person, I’m all the things they are. When that is taken away, what reason do they have for following me?”

“Sunshine,” Varric said with another sigh, “you are anything but simple. And people down here on the lower rungs? They don’t _know_ you like the Seeker and I know you, they’re not looking at you the way Tiny does. And before you go running off trying to be everyone’s friend, try to remember that this is a part of being who you are now. Distance comes with the hero package.” He started to chuckle, thinking about everything else that came with the hero package. “You know, Hawke thought that distance was hilarious. I mean, granted, most of the people in Kirkwall were idiots, anyway, but it made for some great stories at the Hanged Man.” He gave Olwé a pat on the shoulder, smiling slightly. “The point is, if you’ve got people close to you, people who know you, it’s not so bad. Being the world’s friend is a lot harder than just having drinks with the same crowd every third day."

The elf looked down at him, shoulders finally relaxing. “Thanks, Varric.”

“Anytime, Sunshine.”

He exhaled. “Right. We should go see about those mages, yeah?” Adjusting the grip on his staff, he started off down the road. “Come on!”


	6. I Have a Sin of Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big ass chapter because why not

Dorian felt heat leave him, but had no time to watch his fire consume the demon to the left, for the demon to the right had closed in a bit too fast. He fended the thing off with his staff, shoving mightily, then stepped clear just enough to twirl the weapon around in a frequently-practiced electrical attack. Bolts of light shocked the two demons, frying them instantly. Now the whole chantry smelled of vaguely burnt Fade.

Something told him eyes were watching, and he turned to see a group of confused and rather confusing people standing at the end of the aisle. There could only be one reason for their presence. “Ah, you’re here!” he called, only just refraining from tossing a lazy wave at them. “Come help me close this, would you?”

The person at the head, a scrawny Dalish elf, held his staff at the ready. “I’d be more than happy to,” he replied.

Well, he was a mage, but Dorian was rather sure he wouldn’t be of much help. That Qunari brute, on the other hand, had things well handled. The woman, too, surprisingly enough. And she wasn’t wearing any of that shite armor he sometimes saw ladies wear. And… by the Maker, was that a dwarf with a ridiculously large crossbow? Ah, well. When in Ferelden….

Due to the chaotic nature of battles, especially those involving Fade demons, Dorian only caught glimpses of the newcomers as they fought, though he was pleased with what he saw. The elf had stayed back for the most part, out of Dorian’s sight as he cast his spells. Dorian was a different sort of mage, the sort who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty or his staff bloody. He wondered where these warriors had picked up such a delicate flower. 

It was to his utter shock, then, that this same tiny elf skipped forward when the last demon was dead and held up a hand, which glowed brilliantly and caused the Rift to convulse, shudder, and finally, close.

Dorian stared at him, mouth actually agape. “Incredible,” he said, shaking his head. “How on earth do you do that?”

The elf looked at him, then down at his hand, pushing his lips to the side in an expression of contemplation. Dorian laughed. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and boom! Rift closes.” He shook his head again, nearly but not quite in awe. Awe was reserved for the day Tevinter thoroughly outlawed blood magic, and while this tiny elf was impressive, he wasn’t quite that impressive.

“I’m… a little confused,” said the creature, stepping closer. 

“Ah, yes. Allow me to introduce myself.” Time to put on a show. “I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. And you must be the Inquisition.”

“Be careful,” said the woman, holding up a hand. Her accent was, interestingly enough, Nevarran. “Yet another Tevinter mage is not to be trusted.”

“What lovely friends you have here,” Dorian said cheerily.

For some reason, the elf smiled broadly at the response. “It’s alright, Cassandra,” he murmured quietly. Hm. Trusting young thing. “My name is Olwé. I recently met with Magister Alexius, but I was sent here. I _thought_ I would be meeting Felix.”

“Felix, yes. He’ll join us soon, though he’s been delayed.”

“Erm….” The elf’s brow furrowed, suddenly looking uncertain. “When Felix seemed to take ill, his father was only too ready to leave. Is something the matter with him?”

Dorian felt a twinge of sadness pluck his heart, but kept his features light and tone level. “Ah, yes, he’s had a lingering illness for months now. No doubt Alexius is acting as a mother hen, and that’s why Felix is delayed.”

“Might I ask what it is?” 

The mage raised an eyebrow. “It has to do with the Blight, if you really want to know.”

Olwé immediately became somber, eyes flicking away for a moment. “Ah… one of the few things I cannot cure.”

“You’re a healer?” Dorian said with some surprise. For being the great Herald of Andraste, of which he’d heard many mighty stories, the elf was turning out to be rather… quaint.

He smiled slightly. “When I need to be. Which, until recently, was quite often.”

“We are not here to exchange pleasantries,” said Cassandra, stepping forward. “We were asked to meet you here. Why?”

“It’s business then. Of course.” Dorian nudged the remains of a demon away and stepped forward. “It concerns Alexius and his presence here. He's found a way to disrupt time using the Rifts. The one you just now closed is a part of that, as I'm sure you've noticed."

Olwé froze, eyes wide. "I - what? He's disrupting _time_? I don't - I didn't believe that was even possible."

"Well, unfortunately, I helped to develop this magic, and I know a bit about what I'm talking about."

"And it's gone farther than anyone realized," said a new voice.

Dorian turned, then smiled at the newcomer. "Ah, and Felix finally arrives," he said with a smile. Then he grew serious. "He doesn't suspect anything, does he?"

"No," said Felix. "But I shouldn't have played the illness card. I thought he'd be hanging over me all day." He turned to the Inquisition, eyes devoid of humor. "My father has joined a cult of Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves the Venatori, and they want you."

The small elf looked taken aback, and if Dorian hadn't already had his suspicions, he would have been surprised, too. "Me?"

Felix nodded. "He knew you would come here to ally with the mages, so he bent time, making it so that he could arrive here before you did."

Now the elf's eyes were nearly out of his head. " _Why_?" he asked incredulously. "He might rend history to shreds, all because he wants to... to what, exactly?"

"Kill you _and_ take the mages." Felix shook his head. "I wish I knew more about them."

"It's enough," Dorian said. He turned back to the Herald. "Alexius is no doubt going to use your meeting for something nefarious. We'll have to plan this carefully if we're going to stop him _and_ keep you alive." He looked over the elf for a moment. "And something tells me that's easier said than done."

"Do not underestimate the Herald," said Cassandra firmly. "He is more capable than you can believe. Whatever this Alexius is up to, he will be stopped, time magic or no time magic."

Olwé was looking puzzled, one hand running through his dark, curly hair. "Could he be at all responsible for the explosion at the conclave?"

"Absolutely not," Dorian said. "I knew Alexius once. He was a good man, and we had similar goals in mind. What he's doing now is inexplicable, but I cannot see him doing something like... well, that." He gestured to the elf's glowing hand.

"Alright, everything you just said was the opposite of reassuring," Iron Bull said.

"It wasn't him," Felix said. "We were in Tevinter when the accident at the conclave happened. And then... we weren't, but either way, it wasn't my father. The Breach's appearance is the reason he's able to manipulate time at all."

"Then he's still involved," Olwé said, looking unhappy with the conclusion. "Dorian, is there any way we can reason with him?"

The mage paused, surprised at the question. He had expected, though had been dreading, the Inquisition wanting to kill his former mentor on sight for his recent crimes. It was clear Olwé's companions would go for that option, but the elf himself was ready to show mercy. "I very much hope that we can," he said. Then he pulled his shoulders back. "Well, if we're going to have any hope of anything, we need a plan. I'll go to your little village there in the mountains and offer what help I can. Oh, and Felix?" He looked at his old friend, giving him an amused look. " _Try_ not to get yourself killed."

"There are worse things than death, Dorian," said the man. Oh, classic Felix. Too wise for his own good.

As he left, Dorian noticed Olwé looking at Felix as though he, too, saw the wisdom there. The elf might not have looked like much, but Dorian was beginning to realize that there was more beneath the surface. Maybe there was a reason he was the Herald after all.

. . .

Well. Olwé had certainly turned out to be more than initially expected.

Facing a lunatic magister, discovering the presence of a true enemy, and being launched into a nightmare future had failed to break him down at all. And fighting Venatori soldiers throughout the castle? Not a problem at all. Perhaps a little disheartening, but really no more than a bump in the road.

_"Do not underestimate the Herald,"_ that Seeker had said. As Dorian watched Olwé stop Alexius with a combination of lightning and spirit magic, he thought underestimation was about as deadly as any blade. 

"I'm sorry," the elf panted quietly, looking at Dorian's stunned face. "I - he gave me no choice. I tried to help, but-"

"I know," Dorian murmured. He did know. Olwé had offered Alexius so many chances, had nearly cursed Leliana when she slit the throat of what hadn't really been Felix to begin with, and all had been for naught. The magister was simply too far gone. 

"Here's your amulet," said the spymaster, throwing the artifact at Dorian. "Make this right."

"Give me an hour, I can work out the spell Alexius used," he said. 

This was the wrong thing to say, however. "An hour?" she scoffed, her scarred face twisting into a scowl. "We have no time! You do this spell now, or we're lost forever."

Olwé opened his mouth, possibly to calm Leliana, but shouting could be heard from the other side of the oaken doors. He looked, thumb tapping against his leg nervously. "We need time," he said quietly.

His two friends, the dwarf and the Seeker, looked at one another. "Then you'll have it," Cassandra said, hefting her sword.

"We'll get you as much time as we can, Sunshine," Varric said, crossbow in hand.

Olwé's eyes widened, face paling. "No! No, no, I can't ask this of you!"

"Then don't," said Cassandra.

"I...." He stared at them weakly, wanting to say no and knowing that would affect nothing.

"Don't worry about it," Varric said, patting Olwé's arm though his heart was clearly in his throat. "If you get this right, this will have never happened."

"I'll remember," Olwé said, and it was more of a promise than a sad remark. 

Dorian was nearly floored at the level of loyalty these people had, watching them march towards the grand doors. He could assume that their loyalty was to the cause, to the future that could still be, but there was more. They would have gone to defend their Herald had there been no chance at all for a reversal. 

Leliana drew her bow, face set in stone. "You have as much time as I have arrows," she said, then turned towards the door. 

With all the sacrifices being made, Dorian had better be damn sure of what he was doing. And he wasn't really. 

"I can do this, just give me a moment," he told Olwé, kneeling by the stairs and beginning to work his magic over the amulet. 

"I believe you," the elf said, standing next to him and eyes glued to the door.

They could both hear the fighting. Dorian could ignore it reasonably well, consumed as he was with his task, but Olwé had no such distractions. A quick glance up showed tears in his eyes that he wouldn't let fall. There was steel in this delicate flower, Dorian would give him that much. 

It might have been his proximity to the Herald, but he was fairly positive that a miracle occurred. A Rift opened before them, bright green and showing a hazy scene of a similar hall on the other side. "This is it!" he said, turning back to Olwé. The elf was frozen, watching Leliana take the Venatori who'd come through. That meant Varric and Cassandra were lost, and the spymaster was about to be. "Come on!" Dorian shouted. "This will mean nothing if you die here!"

Olwé finally looked back at him, seeming to come to himself, then he tore himself fully away from the scene and followed. Dorian jumped through first, feeling a rush of something indescribable and vaguely painful, then his feet landed in the hall. But this hall was sunlit, still filled with Venatori, and there were the other Inquisition members standing in front of him. They looked both shocked and pleased, not looking at him. So the Herald had come through, good.

A hand gripped his shoulder, a small hand with bony fingers. A lot of weight descended upon him, and he turned. Olwé was clinging to him, face pale. Dorian was confused for a moment, wondering if the Rift had somehow poorly affected him, and then he saw the arrow lodged in his back. "No!" he exclaimed, turning and gripping the elf's shoulders. They both hit the floor, Dorian trying desperately to keep the Herald upright. 

"What happened?" Cassandra demanded, suddenly kneeling right next to him.

There was too much to explain, too much that would be moot of this elf died. "He was shot, what do you want me to say?" Because that was the only important thing, the only relevant bit of information. 

"Dorian," Olwé said, his voice strained. 

"Shh, hush, save your breath," said the mage, already laying hands on the elf's back, green spirit magic that he'd _never_ been particularly adept at flowing away from him. Past Olwé's shoulder, Dorian saw the stunned face of Alexius, and he felt anger rise in his chest. "It's over Alexius! Your future doesn't work!"

"Soldiers, take him!" Cassandra barked, and several Inquisition men approached the magister. He didn't even struggle, he simply let himself be taken. Yes, the Herald had been injured, but there was a chance for recovery, and he'd just come back from what Alexius had considered certain death. This was proving to be an impossible being.

But the bloody idiot had to _live_ first.

"I told you to go through," he said fiercely to the elf in his arms, hands covered in blood and oh, Maker, just because he was Tevine didn't mean he liked that sensation.

"I did. I did go through," Olwé gasped.

"Not like this. Don't die or you'll doom us all."

Olwé's hands clung to his mage robes, the grip slowly weakening as the light faded from his eyes. Kaffas, those green eyes, like little jewels, green as the Fade. _Keep them open._ "Stay awake, your holiness, we'll get you set right. Come now." He looked around desperately. "We've got a million mages in here, can't any of them help!"

As though shocked out of a trance, three mages plus Enchanter Fiona darted up to the dais, laying their hands on the Herald's back. More spirit magic began to flow, and someone got the arrow out. The elf was lowered to lie on his stomach so the blood wouldn't drain out, and then his eyes closed and he went limp.


	7. Thou Hast Not Done

Dorian watched over the Herald in an uncharacteristic bout of responsibility. He needed to make certain everyone's hero lived. And it did look good, for the mages' magic and, later, healer's efforts had brought him out of the worst of the trouble. He'd been moved to a room in the castle, now that the Venatori had vacated the place with their bodies and souls more or less intact, and Dorian had taken to sitting in there with him.

He was not alone in this regard. Cassandra would stop in several times throughout the day, and Varric sat for as long as was reasonable. Also, unreasonable. The dwarf was a sort of paternal figure over the elf, making comments to his sleeping form every so often as he conversed with Dorian. The mage and the archer became rather fast friends, considering the circumstances. Varric told stories of his days in Kirkwall, and Dorian realized the reason for his lack of suspicion regarding the Tevinter mage. People were individual creatures, regardless of the pack to which they belonged.

But when Olwé did open his eyes, it was sometime in the afternoon of the third day, and Dorian was the only one present. There was an intake of breath through the nose, and the mage was on his feet. "Sh, your holiness. Don't panic just yet."

"Not panicking," he grunted, looking around. Maker, those eyes.... "What's going on?"

"You were shot," Dorian said, comfortable in the knowledge that the elf wasn't too badly harmed. "Largely due to the fact that you didn't move when I told you to, but, due to our own efforts, we can't exactly turn back the clock." The elf gave a slight smile in response, and Dorian checked his forehead. "Well, slight fever, but it's far better than what it was yesterday. I believe you'll heal."

"I generally do," he murmured. Then he blinked. "Is everyone else alright?"

"Yes, your holiness, everyone is fine," the mage soothed. "Nothing to worry about."

"Could you stop calling me that?"

Dorian's mustache twitched. "Why? I'd be over the moon if people started calling me 'your holiness.' Of course, being holy isn't exactly a virtue of mine, but we'll disregard that in the interests of hypotheticals."

Olwé laughed weakly. "That was a lot of words to say nothing at all." 

Dorian grinned and sat in the chair again. "Now that _is_ one of my virtues."

Olwé's smile faded and he looked up at Dorian with something like guilt. The mage couldn't fathom what he had to be guilty for. "Everything that happened in that future... that can still happen?"

Dorian gave a half shrug. "Unlikely, now that we've thwarted the Venatori's plans, but possible. I doubt, however, that you would let any of it come to pass."

"Some still remains," said the elf, and the words felt disproportionately wise compared to his visage. "Alexius is too far gone already. I'm sorry."

Dorian felt that sadness that had been eating at him, knew it showed on his face for once because this time he couldn't stop it. "Yes.... I'm sorry, too. He was a good man once. He could have been a great one."

"The problem is, he tried," Olwé said yet more quietly. 

That was exactly the problem. It was always the problem. "Could we not talk about this now, please?" Dorian said.

" _Abelas_ , I didn't mean to-" He paused, shaking his head. "The Venatori have been thwarted, you say?" 

Ah, good. On to victory. "I should say so. Don't tell me you don't remember that last bit where we came back to the present."

"Well, yes, but what about after? Did we push them out?" he asked.

Dorian nodded. "Well and good, your holiness. Although, I hear the mages are still scrabbling a bit. Might want to see to them when you've recovered."

"I've recovered," he said quickly, already trying to push himself up and wincing as he did so.

"Would you stay?" Dorian said, though he was laughing. "You were nearly dead a few days ago, take a moment to breathe."

"There's not time for breath," said the elf, face pulling in a grimace.

Dorian didn't like that face. It marred his innocent features, showed the pressure that a holy prophet was truly under. "You don't have to go now," he said quietly, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Olwé looked at him, sitting up now with legs hanging off the bed. Maker, this creature was all bones and silliness. "Dorian, without even being told, I can tell you what's happening with the mages right now. They've been used, betrayed, all of those things that _started_ the rebellion, and it happened to them from someone they thought was their salvation. Even Fiona won't be much help to them now. I have to make sure they have a safe place to go."

"That safe place being Haven?" Dorian asked. It didn't come out as skeptical as he'd meant it to.

Olwé nodded, exhaling. "Haven. Could you get my tunic, please?"

Dorian nodded, retrieving the dark green garb from where someone had tossed it by a chair. There had been an attempt to wash it, so while there was still a tear from the arrow, the bloodstains were minimal. It was all the Herald had to work with, so back on it went. 

"Is this honestly how the Herald of Andraste dresses?" Dorian said, watching as the elf secured the folds and fastenings of the garment.

He looked up. "Is there a dress code I'm supposed to know about?"

The mage put a hand to his chest. "Of _course_! You need gold thread embroidering everything, jewels stitched into your collars, only the finest silks from Rivain adorning your - ah - blessed physique. Look at you. All warm earth tones and basic cotton. You dress worse than that Solas, and he already looks like a homeless vagabond."

Olwé stared at him for a moment, then he let out a hearty laugh. Dorian hadn't yet heard that, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. The sound was almost literally a ray of sunshine, reaching into his chest and warming his heart as though he sat in a bright field with a litter of puppies. The thought made him want to vomit from the sweetness, but this elf was far too genuine, too _real_ for such a thing to be a problem. His joy was simply infectious, created for the purpose of making joy in others. 

"I have no idea where to even _begin_ listing the problems with that," he said, smiling widely. "You realize that both Solas and I are technically homeless vagabonds, yes?"

"That doesn't mean you need to _look_ like one."

Olwé shook his head, curls bouncing merrily. "Hand me my staff, would you? I'm going to need it."

Slightly perplexed, Dorian did as asked, handing over the long piece of wood. It, just like everything else about Olwé, was rather quaint. It was plain, though made from sturdy hornbeam. The top had three curling fingers which arched inward, guarding an uncut stone that had been secured in the middle. In just the brief look Dorian had, he noticed that all up the neck of the staff were carvings, most being words, some pictures. It was a bit curious, as most staffs he’d seen were metal, and no mage in their right mind would think of mutilating it. Indeed, it seemed like such an earthy thing to do that Dorian just assumed it was a Dalish practice and left it at that. 

When he had fetched the weapon, he’d thought Olwé was planning to use it as such, and had no idea why the elf would need to attack someone at the moment. Then he realized that Olwé was implementing it as a basic walking stick. Maker, it was like watching someone turn an elegant sword into a fancy cheese knife. This just _wasn’t_ what staffs were for. 

“Now you just look old,” Dorian said with a long-suffering sigh, making Olwé laugh again. 

They made their way out of the room and into the halls, the mage watching the elf carefully for any signs of faltering or weakness. The wound had been mostly healed, but it was still a terrible one.

Olwé showed no intent to stop, however. He pressed on no matter how painful it was (and it must have been) until he reached the entrance hall, where many mages and Inquisition soldiers still congregated. There were several gasps from the people nearest their little side door, and those people parted to give Olwé a wide berth. Dorian felt a little prick at his heart when he noticed the elf’s vaguely hurt expression. He was not a friend to them, but something very close to a god. It was clear he didn’t want to be on that level. 

Then his eyes lit up slightly as he spotted someone. “Cassandra!” he called, hobbling forward a few more steps.

The Seeker (whom Dorian also finally located) saw them and her eyes grew wide. “What are you doing out here?” she demanded, crossing the room in a few smooth strides. “You should be resting.”

“I did rest,” he said.

“You still can’t even stand properly.” She glared at Dorian as though this was his fault. “Has his fever even broken?”

Dorian glanced at the elf, then nodded. “Yes.” 

She stepped closer. “Are you lying to me?”

“N-”

“Cassandra,” Olwé said, hand on her arm. She turned to him, but he didn’t need to say what had attracted his attention now. Through the open doors of the great hall, they could clearly see two rows of soldiers marching in tandem, not pausing at the stairs and simply continuing straight into the keep. Mages gasped and pulled to the sides, hiding in the shadows because _that_ was what they knew to do when men came bearing swords. Olwé, contrary to them, moved to the center of the aisle, right by the dais that Alexius had once occupied. He was curious, but guarded. Cassandra joined him, as did Dorian, and from some corner of the room, Varric also made his way over.

Then the leader of this entourage made his appearance. It was a man not dressed in armor, but fine Ferelden clothing (if any Ferelden clothing could actually be called fine). He had golden hair, a worn face, and a crown upon his head. 

“King Alistair!” Cassandra said in utter surprise, followed by a muttered, “Ah, shit,” from Varric. 

“Where is Grand Enchanter Fiona?” the king demanded, not at all in a friendly mood.

“I… I’m here, your majesty,” said the small voice of the mage. She approached the aisle from among the group of onlookers, already looking thoroughly cowed. 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Imagine my surprise when I learned you’d given Redcliffe away to a Magister from Tevinter.”

“We… never intended to….”

“There were special circumstances, sire,” Olwé said, taking a step forward.

Alistair looked at him. “And who are you?”

The elf hesitated. He’d been given a lot of titles lately. “I’m Olwé,” he said simply, to the exasperation of his friends. 

“Well, Master Olwé, I’d prefer to let the Grand Enchanter speak for herself,” he said. 

“He’s the Herald of Andraste,” Dorian put in. “He’s also, if it’s of any interest, the one who stopped all the madness going on here in Redcliffe. With an abundance of assistance from me, of course.”

That had an effect, as Dorian knew it would. Alistair straightened up, the annoyance clearing from his face. “Herald. I apologize, I wasn’t aware that you were here.”

Olwé took another few steps forward. “Alexius’ magic was strong, and he came at the opportune time. It wasn’t the mages’ intent to let Redcliffe fall.”

The king looked at him, regret in his eyes. “I’m afraid that’s the problem.” He turned back to Fiona, shaking his head. “You’re all too desperate and dangerous. That’s why the magister came here. I wanted to help you, Fiona, I did, but you’ve made that impossible. I want the mages out of Ferelden.”

The Enchanter stood flabbergasted at the demand. The surrounding mages had gone dead silent. “But… we have hundreds who need protection,” she said, shaking her head. “Where will we go?”

Then something strange and vaguely funny happened. Olwé looked quickly at Fiona, eyes lighting up, then he slowly looked back at Cassandra as though knowing she wouldn't approve. She was scowling, shaking her head, and he bit his lip, but placed a hand on Fiona’s shoulder. “You know… we did come here for mages in the first place.”

She looked at him, surprise seeping through her despair. “And you would have us come with you?”

He nodded several times. “Yes. We need your help, and you need a place to go. There’s not much of a decision to be made here, is there?”

“But-” Cassandra began, though she didn’t quite know where she was going with her words.

“I’ve known a lot of mages, and they can be loyal friends,” Varric said, putting a placating hand on the Seeker’s arm. “Friends who make, admittedly, bad decisions, but… loyal. Our holy figurehead is a mage, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but he’s-” She paused again, unable to find words.

“Different?” Dorian offered. “Everyone is different, Seeker.”

Fiona looked around at her charges, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I suppose we will have to accept whatever you have to offer,” she said, a bit of life leaving her voice.

Dorian did not envy her position. He had discovered Olwé was the humble owner of a heart of gold, but she wouldn’t know that. She’d been forced into one deal only to fall into another, and the track record wasn’t optimistic.

“You don’t have to worry,” Olwé said gently, putting his hand on her shoulder. “We won’t break you. It would do us no good to do that. You’ll be equal partners in this Inquisition just like everyone else.”

Her eyes widened. “You truly mean that?”

He took a step back, shrugging largely with exasperation. “I _am_ a mage. I am a _little_ sympathetic to your plight.”

“I suggest you take that offer, Fiona,” Alistair said. “One way or another, you are leaving my kingdom.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” she said tightly, turning away from him. “Very well, I accept your offer. The mages will help you close this Breach.”

Dorian was glad of the decision. He thought it a perfectly reasonable one, if a bit daring on Olwé’s part. But that was just the thing. Was he really supposed to be making these sorts of decisions? Cassandra was still seething next to him, but she said no word of protest, made no move to stop events as they unfolded. She let it all pass because, for some reason, she trusted Olwé’s judgment. And really, for situations like these, she had little reason to. 

From the rumors and tales Dorian had heard, the Herald of Andraste was more like the Inquisition’s mascot. From what he was seeing, however, the elf was their very leader.


	8. For I Have More

Every breath of icy air was searing pain to Cassandra's lungs. In the moments after arriving at a safe location in the valley, she had escaped to a secluded area and fallen directly to pieces. Haven, their refuge, the entire town and anyone left in it, collapsed over and over again in her mind.

Anyone left. Including the Herald.

How could she have let this happen? He had been hers to protect, _theirs_ to protect, and they had all let him walk right into the Elder One's hands. She had thought he was behind her when they ran. By the time she realized he wasn't, it had been too late. 

But she had to continue. If she couldn't save the Herald, she could make sure his people were safe. He would have expected nothing less.

Sera was the first one she saw upon her return to camp, and it was not a welcome sight. The girl had also been there in the last moments before Haven's collapse, and her tears were numerous. She had the luxury of letting them flow free, and she was taking full advantage. Blackwall, the final member of that team, was not far away. The haunted look in his eyes had grown so that it could no longer be hidden or ignored. He sat quietly, stunned, unable to comprehend.

At least Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana still functioned, even if their hands and voices shook a little as they did it. Directing troops here, supplies there. It would keep the darker thoughts away for now. Vivienne was inclined to help, patiently following the advisers' orders and finding ways to be helpful when they were busy. The Iron Bull was much the same, using his Chargers to their fullest extent in making sure the refugees were alright.

But no one was really alright. Not after what they'd seen.

The whole night lasted like that, and the entirety of the next day, although the snow now fell so heavily that the difference between the two was difficult to judge. If they didn't find shelter soon, they were all as good as dead.

And then came the wild, reckless shouting.

"Cassandra!" Sera practically screamed, seizing the Seeker by the arm. Cullen was also calling her name, and people were running towards the mouth of the valley. Muttered profanity slipped past Cassandra's lips when she was near enough to see the fuss.

He was face-down in the snow, far too pale and covered in frost, but he was alive. And he was here.

The Herald still lived.

. . .

"Heat, I need more heat," Solas muttered, as close as his voice ever came to panic. A tan hand joined his over the small elf's abused back, and the warmth doubled with Dorian's added concentration.

"You focus on your Fade magic, darling," Vivienne said, adding her own bit of heat. "We'll keep the joints from freezing."

Olwé lay on his stomach amid as many blankets as could be gathered for the time, unconscious and desperately close to the Veil. There were numerous injuries from the battle at Haven and his impossible trek to the valley. A fever had been developing on top of that, as well as malnourishment. The worst of his ailments, however, was his back. Likely caused by the village's collapse on top of him, Olwé's spine was no longer in the proper alignment, not quite broken, but wrenched enough to cause a panic. Dorian had damn near fainted at the sight, but had swallowed his squeamishness to assist in the healing.

"We'll only be able to do so much," Solas told his mage companions. "Short of a blood sacrifice, I'm not sure there's anything we can do without damaging him further."

"Just ease the pain," Dorian said, sweat dripping from his nose despite the freezing temperatures. "As long as he doesn't have to live out his days in agony, we can work with it."

Solas silently agreed with the statement. They could try things later, just so long as there was a later. He glanced at Olwé's face, marked by swirling green vallaslin, expression still so tense even as he slept. An elf so young should never have been forced to make the decision he had.

As the Fade energy drifted away from Solas's hands, the tent flap opened to admit Cassandra. "Is this a bad time?" she asked, voice muted, dull.

"We're just finishing," Solas replied, turning to look at her.

The Seeker looked down at Olwé, eyes lingering on the distortion so still present beneath the flesh of his back, already scarred from the arrow injury at Redcliffe. "How will he walk?"

"He will," Vivienne assured her. "It will not be as easy as it once was, but one could have hardly expected better after what he did. His staff will carry him."

Cassandra did not seem comforted, but she was not further disheartened, either. There was weakness in her gaze, regret and relief mingling to show just how exhausted the Seeker truly was. "He deserves better," was all she said before disappearing out of the tent.

The mages, in one silent look to one another, agreed.

. . .

Solas was still seated beside the young elf when he awoke. There was pain, doubtless. It was etched in every movement, every sound he made.

"We did what we could," he said quietly.

Olwé only nodded, eyes squeezed shut and tears of pain leaking out.

"It may never heal back to the way it was."

Olwé cracked one eye open, attempting to force a smile even now. "May? As though there is a chance?"

Solas looked at him solemnly. "Someone broke the sky. It may be equally possible for someone to heal your spine."

He shut his eyes again, breathing a deep, ragged breath. "An interesting comparison," he murmured.

Solas knew the Herald ought to return to sleep, to recover what little strength he could for the journey ahead. He remained quiet, pulling at old blankets and shirts for new bandages. Healing had never been quite his area as it was for Olwé, but in a time such as this, no one could escape the desperate need for supplies.

He wished the others would be so quiet. The decision to remain close to Olwé was understandable, but the advisers needed to consider that fact and lower their voices when they decided to bicker over every new problem. The squabbles sounded petty, but there was very real, very rational fear beneath the words, an uncertainty that was no help to anyone.

"Give me my staff," Olwé suddenly said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a sharp blow.

Solas looked at him. "That is ill advised," he said slowly.

"Noted," he said, opening his eyes. " _Please_ bring me my staff. I can't do it on my own."

Solas was the only other person in the tent. Olwé could have been doing this as a display of strength, to prove himself, but that wasn't the case. He was a healer, he _knew_ the extent of his injuries, and he _knew_ the price of everything he did now. He was going to stand anyway, because he had to _know_ that he could.

Solas lifted the dark, knotted piece of hornbeam from its secure place and held it out to the young elf. "You are not on your own, _ma falon_ ," he said, the heaviness of his words weighing unexpectedly on his tongue. 

Olwé's large eyes shone with pain, gratitude, and fear. With an effort that even Solas would dub titanic, Olwé drove the butt of his staff into the frozen ground and, through sheer strength of stubbornness and will, heaved himself into some version of upright. This was slow going, and involved much grinding of teeth and half-concealed whimpers. Solas braced a hand against him in support wherever he could, and Olwé eventually gained his feet.

He was severely hobbled, a hunch now curving his back. But his bare feet firmly stood upon the ground, and the old, archaic staff bore his weight without fail. Olwé's eyes were shut, but his breathing was deep, measured, preparatory. Then they opened, and they were as hard as emeralds. With shaking hands, he lifted the staff, moved it forward, buried it in the ground, and stepped forth. The first was hesitant, but every one that followed became smoother, a determined stride forming from the ashes of destruction. 

The advisers were silenced when the tent flap pulled back. Cullen, in the midst of rubbing away his newest headache, allowed his mouth to fall open. Leliana and Josephine froze where they were. Cassandra paused, then took a half step forward before stopping again, desperately wanting to aid Olwé in standing while unsure if this was something he wanted to do himself. Mother Giselle was not far away. A hope even brighter, even warmer than the cooking fire glowed in her dark eyes.

Olwé looked back at them all, and his expression could be read so easily he might as well have been talking. _I'm not dead yet. And neither are we._

Mother Giselle raised her hands to the sky. Her expression could have been one of despair if it wasn't for the smile of intense relief which turned it into quite the opposite. "Thank you," she whispered, the words too small and simple to express her emotions. Without thinking, merely feeling, she raised her voice, and was not long after joined by others.

_"Shadows fall, and hope has fled_  
_Steel your heart, the dawn will come."_

. . .

It was Vivienne's turn to watch over the sleeping Herald. Just standing and taking a few steps had taken a toll on his already weary body, a decision of which she was simultaneously approving and disapproving. She felt that way about him a lot, especially since he chose the rebel mages over the Templars. At times, his sense of mercy bordered on foolishness. But that didn't mean he wasn't honestly trying.

When she entered the tent, she found the skinny elf awake and reading a scroll by the light of a flickering candle, which threatened to extinguish entirely with the sudden rush of air. He looked up at her with weary eyes and nodded. "Imperial Enchanter."

"Still with the titles," she tsked, taking a seat beside his bed. "We've come a long way, my dear. I'm not certain how much power an Imperial Enchanter has in a frozen valley with two hundred refugees. Perhaps 'Vivienne' would sound a little warmer, don't you think?"

He smiled slightly. "I thought you didn't mind the cold."

She offered her own smile. Merciful and foolish, perhaps, but the boy had his own wit. "You're young, Olwé," she said quietly. "And while I understand that youth in no way implies you are incapable, it does sadden me to see your life in such turmoil so soon."

He tried to smile again, but there was a sadness in his eyes too great to make the action effective. "Varric said something similar once. I told him these things don't seem so large a leap when they're happening."

She looked at him curiously. He was never one to make pessimistic comments, and she wondered why he'd open up to her when they had never been particularly good friends. "Do you still believe that?" she asked.

He took a long moment before answering, which she appreciated. She wanted honesty and a thorough answer, not something he thought she wanted to hear. "I didn't know how large the leaps were going to get," he said. "But the size hardly matters compared to the necessity. If I'm going to help these people, then I have to jump."

"And what if you don't quite make the leap?" she asked. "Or perhaps you've leaped in the wrong direction? We may die out here now that Haven is in ruins. Perhaps the mages will lose control despite the comfort you believe you've offered. What do you plan to do when it seems your choices are the wrong ones?" 

There was a hardness in the way he looked at her. He knew she wasn't trying to say he was wrong, that she was merely being hypothetical, but the hardness was there all the same. "I know I'm small," he began. "And I'm not very strong, especially now. I know my talents better lie in picking flowers than picking fights. But someone -- be it Andraste, the Maker, a god of my people, or perhaps someone else entirely -- ushered me out of the Fade in the only moment I've ever been lost. Cassandra said it was providence, and I believe her, even now. I know you'd rather have the Champion of Kirkwall, or King Alistair, or the Warden Commander, or anyone else doing this. But the gods wouldn't ask a king unless a king could do the work. The same goes for healers and Keeper's apprentices."

A year ago, Vivienne would never have thought she would have such a conversation with a Dalish mage. Now, one was lying in front of her, giving her an answer that was everything she had wanted from him.

"So to answer your question, Vivienne," he continued, "I made my choices with the confidence that, should I be given another chance, I would make them again. They may not be perfect, but at this point, I don't believe I can get any of them any more right or wrong than the others. I only take what I'm given and do what I can."

She smiled faintly. They had their different opinions, their different cultures, but she would never let it be said that Olwé was a difficult creature to understand. Nor would she let anyone say that he was a poor leader. He was patient, kind as the sun on frost bitten flowers, and he did his absolute best for the sake of everyone. She would have made different choices, yes. But that didn't necessarily mean he was wrong.

"Perhaps providence is a strong word," she said, smoothing the folds of her robe. Then she looked up at him again. "But even strong words have their appropriate uses."


	9. All That Is is His

Skyhold was a wondrous place, a magnificent fortress for the armies of the faithful. It was the perfect sanctuary from Corypheus and the forces of evil, all those soon to be vanquished by the new Inquisitor’s glowing hand. It was quite a thing, for everyone having been led there by two homeless vagabonds, one of which was hardly even able to walk.

And Dorian was sulking in a corner.

He had been there a while, having claimed a place in the library for himself upon arrival (though in comparison to Tevinter libraries, this place was _dismal_ ). For the most part, he could distract himself with books. There were a fair few of interest in here, and those ought to keep him occupied in the hours that he wasn’t, oh, he didn’t know, off violently slaying demons or, just for fun, a _massive Archdemon._

The sulking had recently intensified due to the presence of a tiny elf, his thin fingers skimming along the bindings of books as he searched for something. Any other time, Dorian would have gladly assisted. Not now. 

“Helisma!” Olwé called, looking around. She wasn’t there at the moment, and he pushed his lips to the side in thought. Dorian wasn’t about to admit that the expression was quite endearing on the elf’s face. Olwé continued on, steadily moving ever closer to Dorian’s corner, making it increasingly harder to concentrate on his book (he’d read this damn sentence how many times?) until- 

“Ah.” Olwé blinked in surprise. “Dorian, hello. Could you help me with something for a moment?” 

_No, not really, I’d rather just sit here quietly._ “With what?” _That’s not the same thing._

“I need a book about the Blight, especially something containing information on Archdemons.” He looked around, leaning heavily upon his staff and seeming almost lost in this circular tower. “Honestly, though, the organization in here has me befuddled.” 

Dorian slowly looked back down at the book in front of him. _The First Blight_. Of bloody _course_ he needed this book. With a long exhale, Dorian shut the tome and held it out. 

Olwé’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, no - if you’re reading it, I won’t-” 

“Oh, just take the damn thing!” said the mage in a loud voice, louder than he’d meant, but he wasn’t about to apologize. 

Except that Olwé seemed to shrink under the agitation, taking the book more for the sake of appeasement than the intent to read it. “Are you… angry with me, Dorian?” 

“I would just really like to know why _you_ , of all people, are so damn terrified of taking up space all the time!” 

He hadn’t actually meant to start this, but just like always, whoops, there went his words. Olwé blinked in surprise, mouth slightly open. “I… well, I don’t….” He took a breath. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean.” 

Dorian put a hand to his forehead, silently cursing as he stood and paced a few steps. “You’re impossible, really, you are. You’ve got immense power at your fingertips and you - you, what, apologize for every little imagined transgression? Walk about wearing wool with a staff probably older than you are? You _insist_ on giving up yourself for everyone else’s sake, and I can’t imagine that’s very healthy for you.” He paused, looking at the crippled elf with an emotion he couldn't identify. “Do you always do what you’re told?” 

Olwé had set the book down, listening patiently. And, Maker, that was _frustrating_. “Well, um…. Yes.” 

Dorian made a vague gesture of exasperation. “Of course you do.” 

Olwé leaned his staff against one of the outer shelves, then hobbled around to collapse into the nearest chair. “Dorian, I still don’t understand what this is really about.” 

“No, you don’t.” The mage turned back to him, shaking his head. “You don’t understand who you are at all. When an Archdemon drops out of the sky ready to roast the ass of anyone within a league, you don’t run at it with a wooden stick! _You_ are the people’s leader, have been even before you were named Inquisitor. If we lose you, there’s little hope for the rest of us.” 

Olwé gave a slow nod, then unexpectedly heaved himself up and disappeared around the corner. For a slightly stunned moment, Dorian thought he’d simply left to avoid the rest of the conversation. Then the elf reappeared, staff in hand, and he retook the chair. “I understand now,” he said quietly, not really looking at Dorian. “I realize that the sacrifice I made caused a lot of fear, but it was one of the moments when no answer I could give was the right one.” 

Dorian didn’t have a reply. He shouldn’t have started the argument, anyway, it was foolish. Obviously, he knew little more than Olwé did on how to head an army like this, how to lead so many. 

“You mentioned my staff,” the elf said, looking at the tool in his hands. “I think we view things like this differently. You see something old, moth-eaten, better for practice than for precision. I see….” A small smile came over him, as though even he knew how ridiculous he sounded. “It’s sort of my friend, I suppose.” He looked up at Dorian. “This was the first staff I ever received, perhaps a year or two after I came into my magic. My father made it. It was too large for me, but I grew into it, and as I changed, so did the staff. The stone is what channels my magic, but it’s these carvings that make it special.” He leaned forward, holding the weapon out so that Dorian might look more closely. “I’ve carved the names of my family into the wood. The pictures are for those gods I pray to. In this way, when I travel, I still have the people I love with me.” 

_It’s just a stick,_ Dorian told himself. _He’s so syrupy. But… honest._

“My clothes are simple because I like them that way, not because I fear luxury,” Olwé continued, looking at the tunic wrapped around his middle. 

_A tunic that might look lovely on the floor._ The mage froze. _Dorian, no._

The elf was looking at him again, eyes serious. “I don’t let people walk over me. I’m not afraid of taking up space. You’re mistaking love for timidity, and that isn’t so. I stayed behind at Haven because my family needed me to, my family here and in the clan. And because of that, I wanted to stay.” 

Dorian frowned, feeling weak and rather like the terrible person that he was. Although… there was something about sitting with the elf that also made him feel a little better. “You’re like Cole,” he said finally. 

Olwé’s face lit up with a wide smile that set Dorian’s heart all aflutter. _Great Maker…._ “Thank you. I’ve not spent much time with him, but he strikes me as a wonderful person.” 

“Oh, I bet he does,” Dorian said, resting his head on his hand. “At least you don’t have a tendency to get into people’s minds. No, you just read people like a book, figure out exactly the right thing to say at just the right time. It’s a wonder there are people that exist who _don’t_ believe you’re really Andraste’s Herald.” 

Olwé rubbed the back of his neck, blushing slightly. “From what I’ve read and heard about her…. I think I should stop being embarrassed about that title.” 

The mage shrugged. “That’s a matter of opinion, I suppose. It _did_ pull a lot of trouble onto your head.” 

“Trouble that I’ve managed so far,” said the elf. 

Dorian stared at him, shaking his head. “You’re a unicorn. A bloody unicorn. Go on, take the book you wanted. But bring it back the moment you’ve finished.” 

“And not a moment later.” Olwé stood, giving the man a nod. “Thank you for the conversation, Dorian.” 

“Yes, yes, just get out of here.” Dorian was in need of a serious distraction, and he immediately reached for the most interesting book on the shelf. 

. . . 

Curiosity, thoughts that linger and blossom and wonder that never leaves. There is worry, too, and less faint as he walks more forward. Faces, strained, tense, uncertain, want to help, want to make it easier. 

Vivienne has no trust. She wants me gone. If it helps, I’ll go, but I think I help here. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ve gotten it wrong before. 

Oh, and Solas is telling them now. I don’t need to. I didn’t need to last time, and… maybe I should have. Maybe I should go there. Or that might make them nervous, and I want to help. 

He’s coming now, and there is no worry in his heart or doubt in his mind. He’s quiet, approaching softly and leaving as little impact of himself on the ground as he can. He sits upon the wall beside me, feet bare, feeling the stone, staff resting upon the wall, and oh but that staff is filled with love and fear and memories. 

“Hello, Cole,” he says, and despite their words to him, he sounds happy. 

“Hello.” 

He is smiling. So few people smile now. “Are you alright?” 

I look at him, just for a moment, just to see the light in his face. He glows, and the mark is only a part of it. “ _Dim, so dim, things are fading and I… I can see no further…._ ” 

He frowns, eyebrows pulling together with the force of his curiosity. "What are you doing?" 

I show him. I take myself to the wounded, stand close to where the well of pain is deepest. He's hurting, he's confused, and I can hear it like a painful song. " _Heavy armor. The sun burns, but I can't get away. Mouth dry, so dry, can barely taste..."_ I take the dipper from the bucket, the water shining and wiggling happily, eager to help. I let the water pass his lips. "There." 

"Thank... you," he says quietly, eyes closing with bliss. 

Olwé has returned, slower than me with that staff as an anchor, watching, curious, patient. “Are you helping these people, Cole?” 

He is pleased, even though he hasn’t heard my response. “Yes. I used to think I was a ghost, but a Templar proved I wasn’t real. I lost everything. But it was alright, because I learned. I became what I am. I can hear more, feel more. I can help.” 

He knows. He hears my words and understands more than what I say. He likes to help, too. “Would you like to stay here in Skyhold?” he asks, and there is hope in his voice. 

I want to say yes, to speak the words that are in my heart, but I stop. Another voice demands to be heard. 

“ _Hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Someone make it stop hurting. Maker, please…._ ” I turn to him. I feel his sadness like a ripple, bumping against the pain of this man, absorbed into it. “The healers have done all they can. It will take him hours to die.” I hear apology in my own voice. The knife is already in my hand. “Every moment will be agony. He wants mercy. Help.” 

He is not looking at me, but at the man. He kneels down as well as the injuries allow him, his hand hovering over the man’s body, gentle, careful, soothing. Green like his eyes flows from his hands, and then it stops. He steps back. I feel it in him, the ache, the sadness, the certainty of the condition. “Help him, Cole,” he says quietly. 

I give him a moment to turn away. He is brave, but looking will make him sick, will make his hope crumble, and he cannot bear that. I help. When it is done, I get to my feet, and I can finally say my own words. “I want to stay.” 


	10. And I Their Map

"No, Bull."

"It wouldn't be an issue. At all. Ever."

Olwé laughed slightly. "It would be an issue for _me_. And probably Cassandra if she ever found out."

The Qunari frowned at him, annoyed that the elf wasn't taking him seriously. "You weigh, what, five pounds? _Maybe_? Listen, I could hang you from one horn and not have to tilt."

"Bull, I'm fine."

"I'm Ben-Hassrath, boss. You can't hide your limits from me."

Sera let out a massive sigh of exasperation. "Oh, come on, Grandad, let 'im put you in a little baby sling for a while and stop 'is grumbling."

Olwé turned to her with wide eyes. "Did you just call me _Grandad_?"

She giggled. "Yeah. Look at you, though. You're all hobble-y with your walking stick an' clothes like an old hermit. You're Inquisitor Grandad!"

"And I'm quickly gaining the cranky attitude to go with it," he retorted, though he sounded amused.

Blackwall gave a powerful snort. "You. Cranky. That's something I'd like to see."

Olwé smiled, then paused for a moment to catch his breath, leaning heavily upon his staff. The ache in his back was starting to make his head hurt, too, but he tried to ignore these things. They were in the Exalted Plains, a place steeped with his own people's broken history. He'd brought Solas along thinking the elf might be interested, and he was currently wandering the plains on his own for individual study. It was unmistakable, though, that both of them were affected by the sadness of the place. 

"Maybe we should try making a camp somewhere nearby," Bull said, looking around.

Olwé sighed. "We're not far from the Dalish camp around here. I want to make it at least that far by nightfall."

"Can you make it any farther, Grandad?" Sera asked, already lying on the ground in the brief moment they had been stopped.

"Let's find out," Olwé said, adjusting his grip on his staff. Before he could even take a step, however, Blackwall held out a hand to stop him.

"Are those ours?" he asked, looking in the distance at two approaching figures and a horse.

Olwé narrowed his eyes and tried to make out the colors on the dusty armor. "Yes," he said definitively. "Perhaps they're messengers from the camp."

The party waited patiently for the two Inquisition scouts to approach, wondering why they only had one horse and weren't riding it. It wasn't even a horse, really, it was a pony, a small, sturdy creature with a splash of white on its forelock. 

"Ser!" called on of the scouts, a hand over her chest in respect. 

" _Aneth ara _," Olwé said with a nod. "How can I help you?"__

__"It's how we can help you, ser," said the man, holding out the pony's reins. "When some of the Orlesian soldiers left, they abandoned their pack pony. We thought he might be an aid to you when traveling."_ _

__Olwé's eyebrows went up and he immediately reached out to stroke the creature, murmuring softly to it. "Oh, who would think to give you up, you beautiful pony?" He turned to the two scouts. "Thank you for this. He'll be a wonderful help."_ _

__"Maker go with you, ser," said the woman, and both scouts bowed before taking their leave.  
Sera stepped up to the pony, already grabbing a small piece of his mane to braid. "What're you gonna name him, then?" she asked._ _

__Olwé looked at the pony thoughtfully. "Mighty Pip," he decided._ _

__She immediately burst into a round of giggles. "Silly name."_ _

__"It's a lovely and hardy flower. I thought it suited him," Olwé said, unbothered. With a bit of help from Blackwall, he got himself into the saddle and looked at his friends, smiling widely. Now that he was on a level with the Iron Bull, he noticed the Qunari looked a bit sulky. "Bull, are you upset about something?"_ _

__Bull looked at him with a narrowed eye. "You'll ride the four-legged thing but you don't want me to carry you."_ _

__Olwé paused, mouth slightly open. "I - I'm sorry, I didn't know it would offend you."_ _

__He waved a meaty hand. "It's not a problem. Let's keep going to that elf camp thing."_ _

__Blackwall and Olwé looked at one another, equally befuddled by Bull's moment of sensitivity. Sera didn't seem to care, skipping along behind Bull as they started off. "Maybe I should-"_ _

__"Let him go," Blackwall said. "Not everyone needs to be helped. He'll get over it on the next group of bandits we meet."_ _

__Olwé let the subject fall. Sometimes it was better to remember that he wasn't always the one who needed to fix things._ _

__There was something else to distract them, anyway. After only about ten minutes of walking in the direction of the Dalish camp, Olwé saw something that caused him to draw rein and laboriously dismount from Mighty Pip._ _

__"What are you doing?" asked Blackwall._ _

Olwé moved forward as quickly as he could, waving for the others to be quiet. Just up ahead, only about twenty feet away, was a beautiful halla, its coat gleaming slightly in the dying daylight. Olwé dropped to his knees, holding one hand out. " _Andaran atish'an_ ," he murmured, and the halla's ears twitched slightly. " _Garas. Garas, ma falon_." 

After a moment, the beautiful halla turned and slowly approached. Olwé barely moved, allowing the creature to sniff and discover him itself. It seemed to be comfortable when it pressed its forehead against him. " _Garas quenathra, ma falon_?" he murmured, stroking the halla's neck. It was beautiful, possibly one of the most majestic things Olwé had ever been permitted to touch. 

__"It's getting dark, Boss," Bull called in as loud a voice as he dared. "Don't want to be stuck out here all night."_ _

The Qunari was right. With a sigh, Olwé picked up his staff and hauled himself to his feet. " _Derath shiral_ ," he murmured before hobbling back to Mighty Pip. The pony patiently awaited him and stayed still as Blackwall once more assisted Olwé onto his back. The elf picked up the reins, then motioned for everyone to continue on. 

__"What did you say to him?" Sera asked._ _

__Olwé shrugged slightly. "I asked him why he was here. Why?"_ _

__She made a face. "Oh. I thought you said something special. Promised him food or cakes or something good like that."_ _

__Olwé looked down at her. "Why would you think that?"_ _

__She gestured backward. "'Cause he's still following you."_ _

__He turned to the best of his ability and saw the halla was, indeed, still trailing after the group. It walked at a steady pace, unafraid but clearly intending to see just where they were going. Olwé thought it was odd, but didn't question it. Perhaps this was a blessing sent from the gods._ _

They arrived soon after at the Dalish camp. Olwé approached the elf who was on watch near the perimeter torches, raising a peaceful hand. " _Andaran atish'an_ ," he said. 

The elf nodded solemnly. "I'd welcome you, but you've brought a Shem and a brute," he said with a bit of a biting tone. 

__"I'd like for you to not call them that, please," Olwé said quietly. "They are my friends."_ _

"Have you seen where you are, _falon_?" He shook his head. "Shem's are the least welcome here." 

" _Atisha_ , Elgan," said a familiar voice. Solas stepped into the light, calmly raising a hand to the elf on watch. "He means you no harm, they merely need a place to rest." 

__Elgan was reluctant, but he heeded Solas' words. He stepped back to allow Olwé's party through, but then he froze, eyes wide with shock. "Fen'Harel curse me," he said, quietly but forcefully. Solas looked at him oddly, but Elgan turned back to Olwé instead. "Hanal'ghilan, forgive me," he said with a bow._ _

__Solas's head snapped over to look at Olwé, but then he caught sight of the golden halla behind him and he relaxed, though retained a look of intense curiosity. "Interesting. You refer to the halla?" he asked of Elgan._ _

__Elgan looked up at him seriously. "I refer to both."_ _

__Olwé's eyes widened. "Oh, no, no, no. Perhaps the halla, but not-"_ _

__"Are you not the Inquisitor? The one who bears the mark of the Fade on his palm?" Elgan asked. "I have heard stories. You lead where you have never been before. You've walked in the Fade and back out again. I know who you are."_ _

__Blackwall looked between the two in confusion. "Er... Who exactly would that be?"_ _

__Olwé was looking more uncomfortable than anyone had ever seen. "Hanal'ghilan," he said wearily. "The Pathfinder. Usually in the form of a golden halla in troubled times." He looked to Solas for assistance, but Solas merely looked interested and slightly amused._ _

__"People have been saying it all along," he mused. "You're blessed, someone otherworldly. Who's to say you're not a Dalish deity?"_ _

__"I'm about as much of a deity as you are, Solas," Olwé huffed._ _

__Solas grinned slightly, even more amused. "Indeed," he said with a slight chuckle. "We might speak of this more in the morning. The hour is too late to be standing in the dark, especially one in your condition, Inquisitor."_ _

__"You'll have your accommodations," said Elgan, bowing as he moved out of the way. Olwé grimaced, but he continued on into the camp without further argument._ _


	11. That Sin Which I Have Won

A lot of things could be said about the effects of stress. Many a philosopher had attempted to write down the tales of woe that could stem from an overworked person, so often that sometimes actions were attributed to stress even if they were well thought-out. It was a common ailment, something everyone understood to such a degree that it was almost more of an excuse for things less understandable. 

The point is, after months of people assuming he was Andraste's chosen, or a god of guidance, or, in some cases, a tyrant, Olwé had done something offensive.

It was such a novel concept that the majority of Skyhold didn't know if they were actually more surprised than offended, but clearly disapproval still ran rampant and there appeared a hundred different reasons as to why he should do this.

"This is what comes of being friends with a Tevine," visiting nobles would sniff in the great hall, completely unconcerned that the Inquisitor might be within earshot. "I've heard they're closer than they ought to be. Now look. There'll be blood magic in the halls before the month is out."

"It was always bound to happen," others would whisper. "He's a mage, Dalish, never been disciplined by the Circle. Always heard they used magic to cook human children and eat them!"

"Maybe Corypheus has finally driven him mad," some would say with pity.

Cassandra was trying to be better than that. She had learned from the start that Olwé's actions weren't always what they seemed, and this one was too shocking to be an exception to the rule. She just wanted to understand this maddening decision.

But Leliana wasn't at all concerned. "Why give him the option if we never wanted him to learn it?" she asked, then she gave Cullen a pointed look. "I ran them through _you_ first. You _knew_ what his choices were."

"I never thought he'd pick _that_ one!" the commander retorted. "Maker's breath, I _never_ imagined he'd follow the path of blood magic."

"It isn't _all_ blood magic," Cassandra said carefully, hoping to salvage the situation. "Necromancy is a complex study."

Josephine seemed just as nervous, if not more. "I wonder if the decision was made out of desperation. Corypheus' forces _have_ been dogging our troops as of late, and we know how reluctant Olwé is to admit his own stress."

Leliana glared at each of her friends in turn. "Is that what you think this is? You believe Olwé would spend _weeks_ and _months_ on a particular study because of pressure? How often has he pursued knowledge out of fear?"

"I was certain he'd train with the Rift mage," Josephine said.

"But he didn't," said Leliana. "He chose the Necromancer, and he chose him for a reason. Instead of running to me when someone does something strange, why don't you ask _him_ about it when he returns from the Western Approach?"

Cassandra swallowed any other questions she was preparing to ask. Leliana was right, and the Seeker had already known it would be better to ask Olwé himself, but the concept of the sunny healer practicing the same magic as her gaunt and morbid uncle was disorienting. She was impatient for answers.

The impatience was made worse by the fact that she knew she wasn't the only one. Olwé had taken Cole, Sera, and the Iron Bull with him to the Approach, and there had been an uneasiness about the Fade spirit when they left, as well as a distinct increase in the gruffness of Bull's attitude. Sera seemed to be the only one who didn't care one way or another about it all. Vivienne, of course, was frostier than usual about the subject, and that wasn't much of a surprise. Blackwall wasn't happy, and there was no reason for him to be. Varric was nervous, Cassandra was nervous, and Solas was merely intrigued.

Everyone would have given their left arms to interrogate Dorian about the matter (as it was so clearly his fault, at least in part) but the mage, whether because he knew the backlash was coming or for other reasons entirely, had followed Olwé to the Approach and was too far away to question.

Cassandra would probably be wringing his neck when he got back.

. . .

When the party did finally return, Olwé was not even permitted to rest before being set bodily into a chair in Josephine's office and stared down by his advisers, almost exactly as the case had been when he was taken prisoner.

"You will explain this development," Cassandra said before realizing just how brusque she sounded. With a sigh, she made an effort to make her bearing less aggressive. "I mean... _please_ explain why you've decided to pursue such... _unstable_ magic."

Olwé merely stared at them all for a moment, then he leaned back in his chair, expression changing to one of consideration. "Does my decision frighten all of you?"

"Not necessarily," Josephine began, but Cullen cut her off.

"It comes as a shock, Inquisitor," he said abruptly. "You understand how little sense this makes compared to your other decisions, don't you?"

Leliana rolled her eyes, waving a hand at Cullen. "It doesn't fit with _your_ picture so you refuse to see any reasoning, that's all."

"I understand your distress," Olwé said. "Especially you, Cullen. This can't be an easy thing for you to allow. But I _do_ have my reasons." He shifted again, revealing the small animal skull he had hanging from his belt. "It all looks very frightening, doesn't it? The objects, the spells, the blood used to enhance the energy. But please understand that I'm studying as hard as I can so that I may have absolute control over everything I do."

"But why do it at all?" Cassandra asked. "From what Solas told me, you were prepared to be a Rift mage."

"Perhaps I was," he said calmly. "But that doesn't mean I've lost interest in the Fade. In fact, I could argue that I work with the Fade just as much now as I would if I studied for that path. You see, Necromancy is not merely re-animating the dead and forcing them to obey me. Through my own blood, I provide a link between those who have passed and those who have not. With the mark on my hand, I embody the link between this world and the Fade." He looked at his advisers, eyes shining slightly. "This was _never_ about the power the magic afforded me, I _never_ wanted to merely win victory in a fight more swiftly. When I've finished my training, I will be able to take every lost soul and literally _walk_ them home. I can give peace to _everyone_ who falls on a battlefield. I can give a fallen fighter one more chance to redeem himself. I can give the dead another chance to fall they way _they_ want to fall. All my life, I could only help the living, and now my reach has extended beyond that." If he wasn't so serious about this pronouncement, he would have been smiling about it. "The dead aren't inherently horrors, they're _us_ on the other side of the Veil. That's all."

Cassandra knew he would have an answer. So had Leliana, as she was now giving Josephine and Cullen significant glances, and her look also invited them to apologize.

"We understand now, Inquisitor," Josephine said. "Thank you for taking the time to explain."

"I will _always_ explain, Josephine," he said. "If you ever have questions, please come to me. I don't want fear and mystery, I want you to know what's going on." He took his staff and pushed himself out of the chair. They truly were significantly calmer now, which pleased him, so he quietly took his leave so they could focus on more important things.

What he found just outside the door was a Tevinter mage leaning casually against the wall, examining his fingernails with amused nonchalance. "Well, that was _quite_ the little scandal you stirred up, wasn't it?" he said with a smirk.

Olwé smiled, shaking his head. "You would know about scandals."

Dorian shrugged slightly. "Fair point. Although mine usually incite disgust over unbridled terror."

"The terror I can understand. The disgust, less so," said the elf, leaning his weight against a table rather than his staff. "You're clean, well-read, part of an esteemed house, and you're incredibly good at what you do. I find nothing to dislike."

His mustache twitched as he tried to suppress a surprised smile. "You're... too kind," he said, moving away from the wall. "Flattery aside, I'm also surprised by your decision. Necromancy is a... well, it's a messy business. Corpses, restless spirits, cracked bones begin appearing in the wake of every step...." He paused, looking over at Olwé. "And yet you're smiling."

"Are you concerned for my reputation, Dorian?" he asked, grinning widely.

"I'm concerned for your delicate immortal soul, your worship," said the mage, moving to stand beside Olwé against the table. "There's a reason only Nevarrans dare practice such a thing openly outside Tevinter. Most there are already soulless. Take our Lady Cassandra for instance."

Olwé put a hand to his chin, as though thinking hard. "Wasn't it... _you_ I saw animating a shadow to fight on your behalf when a Ventori knocked you silly?"

Dorian was trying very hard not to smile now. "It was a precaution for... look, I don't think you're listening to me."

"I'm listening, Dorian," Olwé said calmly. 

Dorian looked down at him, his smile slowly fading. Kaffas. The elf had gone beyond intriguing, beyond awe-inspiring. He was something so much more that couldn't be put into simple words. He was rebellion without aggression, without pitched battle. He was iron that could bend but never break. He was a sunflower that would never wilt for the winter. He was so many things, so contradictory, filled with hearthfire rather than dragonfire so that he burned, yet comforted all in his path rather than charred. 

" _Warm, so warm, happy, I can't, I can't even touch. Stars so far away and he among them so I can never set foot beside him or I'll fall, I'll always fall._ "

Dorian felt every nerve in his body burst into humiliating flame. He turned quickly, seeing a pale young man crouched upon the end of the table. "Cole! How - why are you-"

"You can't fall if you're already held," Cole said, looking down and shaking his head. "They said the staff is a staff but it already says hello to you, it says _'Dorian.'_ How would it hurt you? _'The curse of the mage, fire in a hand that can't be withdrawn'_ \- but, it's not fire. It's light. You're confused, if you could just see-"

"That - that's enough, Cole," Dorian interrupted, putting a slightly shaking hand to his forehead. 

Acknowledging the dismissal, the spirit vanished. Dorian's sudden nausea did not.

"What are you looking at?"

Dorian whipped around again, seeing Olwé blinking in confusion. "Er-"

"Was something there?"

His heart started to ease its racing. So Cole had done what he could to salvage the situation. "No," said Dorian. "But I, ah, I have to go. Been away with you in the blighted desert for weeks and things have piled up a bit." Without so much as a goodbye, he took his leave of the Inquisitor and escaped up the stairs to the library.


	12. The Whole World Vapours With Thy Breath

Oh, Kaffas, this elf was going to be the end of him.

With a sigh as heavy as the Anchor, Dorian mounted the stairs to the Inquisitor's room, heart fit to beat right out of his chest. He wasn't ever one for conversations about feelings, the chief reason being that it just usually hadn't mattered. Mutual emotions were not of great concern when he would just be bodily dragged from the bed in the morning, anyway.

Now, however, there was no father to summon guards to fetch him, and such overwhelming feelings were going to cause problems if left unresolved. 

Olwé didn't notice that he had a visitor, which was unfortunate, as Dorian would have preferred not having to announce himself. But the Inquisitor was currently sitting awkwardly on the floor, an array of leaves and stems spread out before him.

"I can't imagine that's very comfortable," Dorian said from his position by the stairs.

Olwé looked round and smiled. "Dorian, good to see you. Can I help you with anything?"

He tried to stop the elf as he rose with difficulty to his feet, but by the time any words formed, Olwé was already up. He sighed. "Look, all of this flirting business is very nice, but I can only be teased for so long before I'm forced to do something about it."

Olwé blinked in surprise, then a tender smile slowly spread across his face. "By all means, Dorian. I never meant to tease, I was only trying to show that I cared about you. To be honest, though, I wasn't sure I was going about it the right way."

Dorian looked at him and cocked his head, ignoring the little thrill in his heart because it was too early to think something could really come of this. "Have you… _ever_ been in a relationship before?”

Olwé thought for a moment, lips pushing over to the side and Dorian _wished_ he’d stop doing that for his own good. “No, not in the capacity you mean.”

The Tevine let out a laugh. “Then how do you know what you like?”

Olwé looked a little surprised at the question. “The question isn’t _what_ I like, really, it’s _who_ I like, and I happen to like you.”

Dorian was _not_ about to feel touched by such a statement. As opposed to Tevinter, “hit it and quit it” would definitely not apply in this situation. It might actually involve a bit of effort and possibly some emotions. “And what about after, hm?” he asked.

The elf looked confused. “After Corypheus, or…?”

“After _us_ ,” he corrected. 

Now Olwé looked more confused, and just a little hurt. _Maker, no, not the eyes_. “Why would there be an after?”

Dorian let out another chuckle to keep himself casual, although this one tasted bitter. “Myriad reasons, really. You might find I’m far too good for you. I might find you’re far too powerful for me. One or both of us might d-” He hesitated, unwanted images flashing in his mind, and changed course. “-decide that we simply don’t have the time or the will to continue this. I just don’t want you getting your beautiful heart broken too harshly, you see. First love, and all that.”

Olwé’s brow was furrowed. “Dorian… have _you_ ever been in a relationship?”

Another laugh, this one more surprised. “What an odd question. Of course I have.”

“One that _didn’t_ last only a few days, or only the span of a visit?” 

Kaffas, that elf knew how to hit where it hurt. “That… wasn’t really-”

Olwé reached forward, taking Dorian’s hand in such a ridiculously innocent gesture that the mage wanted to laugh. “You can’t lie to me about your intents, Dorian,” he said quietly, causing the Tevine to sober up. “This doesn’t have to be so complicated. All I know is that you make me happy-”

“A lot of things make you happy,” Dorian said before he could stop himself.

Olwé hesitated, then nodded. “Yes,” he said slowly. “But this is a different sort of happy. It’s not got a name, I don’t think. At least, not one I know.”

Love? Was he trying to say love? Yes or no, Dorian wasn’t certain he’d like either answer. There was simply far more going on now than had ever happened between himself and another person, and… it really did feel good. If he forgot the novelty of it, it was nice not to feel bitter about an emotionless tryst, and it was freeing to not have the sense that this was all over by morning. It wasn’t over by morning. Every day, he could find Olwé in the Great Hall, or the elf would appear in the library, and he would still be just as happy to see Dorian, regardless of the capacity in which they met. 

For one moment, for one ridiculous moment, Dorian imagined himself as a different person, as the person Olwé saw in him, and for that moment he felt like he deserved the elf. 

He knew what Olwé was trying to say.

He leaned forward quickly, not giving himself the chance to decide against it, and firmly kissed the elf on the lips, something deeper and more solid and just _more_ than he had done before. “You make me happy as well, Amatus,” he said, saying the new name because it suited him better. 

Olwé’s lips quirked up, emerald eyes shining. “What is that?” he asked quietly.

“I’m not telling,” Dorian replied, moving in for another kiss.

The elf hummed against his lips, a silly, happy noise that warmed Dorian to his core. “Then keep your secret, ma vhenan.”

“What does that mean?”

Olwé smiled. “I’m not telling.”


	13. To End Where I Begun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, well, we all know basically how the game goes, and I think I've provided enough info that you can imagine Olwé continues to be his own cinnamon-roll self. Let's just skip to endgame so I don't bore everyone to tears (heads up, though, this endgame is a little different).
> 
> Knocked this out in about four hours of straight writing, BOO YA
> 
> *ma ghilana mir din'an = guide me into death  
> *ma nuvenin = as you wish

Perhaps it was an Elvhen thing, or something about being a mage. There was a special sense inside Olwé, something that told him the natures of living things, the sense that told him where to place his feet when he walked or what to say in conversation. Like a spirit offering constant advice, there was a place in Olwé's soul that had always told him in a language beyond words just what he needed to know. These were things he had even before drinking from the Well of Sorrows, even before the Mark. He was born with a map in his mind.

This morning, when he awoke beside the warmth and humid breath of a soundly sleeping Dorian, he felt overwhelming nostalgia, a sort of melancholy that wasn't quite sad, wasn't quite longing, but an emotion that made him feel out of place. He felt eons away from this bed, a century older than the man holding him round the middle, a star looking down upon the world, at once a part of every culture there and yet never among them. 

It had been three years to the day since the destruction of the Conclave. Three years since the Mark branded itself on his left hand. Three years since helping his clan turned into helping the world.

"Dorian," Olwé murmured in the still quiet of the dawn.

The man grunted. "Yes, my delicate flower?" he slurred into the pillow.

"Whatever happens today, know that I love you." Those words made what he was feeling an uncomfortable reality; today felt like the beginning of an end.

It took a moment for the words to register with Dorian. When they did, he lifted his head, brow furrowed with confusion and concern. "Amatus, what-"

Olwé was not given the chance to answer, and had no answer ready, anyway. The door to his room opened, and in moments he saw Varric appear at the top of the stairs. "Hey, Sunshine," he said, though it was without his usual cheer. He couldn't even fake a smile. There was grimness in the tightness of his eyes, worry in the wrinkles of his brow. "I think you need to come to the war room."

Olwé's sense was overwhelming now, like an alarm bell ringing just as it had the night Haven was attacked. Without a word, he carefully maneuvered himself out of the bed and reached for his tunic draped over a chair. 

"What's going on?" Dorian asked carefully as he, too, rose. The question was meant for either party, so long as someone could stop the sudden feeling that the world was immediately ending.

"It's just... better if you see it," Varric said with discomfort. 

"You don't have to come, Dorian," Olwé said quietly as he retrieved his staff.

"Like hell I don't," the mage replied, seizing his own garments. "As though I'm not the nosiest person in this castle. Lead on, Varric."

His flippancy, an appreciated balm on most days, felt sour when it seemed he was the only one unwilling to realize that everything was about to go very, very wrong.

Varric led them down to the war room. Josephine was not at her desk, meaning she was inside. Even before they opened the door, they could hear voices and shifting of equipment. 

Leliana was the first person he saw when he walked in. She was leaning, palms down, against the table, staring down at a map of the Deep Roads. Cullen stood beside her and several of his soldiers milled about the room, along with a few Wardens. Cassandra stood against the wall, arms folded as she looked upon the room with silent disapproval.

"Send the most seasoned veterans to the front," Leliana was saying to Cullen. "They will be your guides and the first to know how to handle whatever you come across. You would do well to assign a few of the remaining Templars there, as well."

"Where?" Olwé asked, stepping closer to the table.

Leliana glanced at him, then looked away again. "You don't need to be here," she said quietly. 

That immediately alerted him to the fact that she was doing something he wouldn't like. He'd made it clear in the past that he was not overly fond of her methods, and anything she deemed necessary should be run past Cassandra rather than himself. Now that Varric had come to fetch him, however, he knew this was more than the usual spy mission. "What is this, Leliana?" he asked in a calm voice. "I'd like to know what's happening."

It took a moment, but she finally looked up at him. "I'm sending all of the Wardens to the Deep Roads," she said.

His eyes grew wide and he heard Varric sigh next to him.

" _That's_ why we sent for you," Cassandra said.

"What in Mythal's holy creation could make you want to do that?" Olwé exclaimed.

Leliana straightened up and looked him dead in the eye. "Morrigan is prepared to face Corypheus' Archdemon, Inquisitor, and the time has come for you to be ready, as well. If Corypheus' base is in the Deep Roads as we think it is, we must send someone to find it."

"The only reason Wardens go to the Deep Roads after a Blight is to die," he said. "If Corypheus _is_ down there, he'll slaughter all of them!"

"They are willing to take the risk," she said. "After Adamant, they need a chance to redeem themselves. Their order has been corrupted."

He put a hand to his face, pushing his fingers through his hair. "Leliana, you can't kill them all, it's unjust."

"They have agreed to the plan," Cullen interjected, though his face was just as grim. "We are not forcing them into this."

"Of course they'd agree to it if you made them all out to be monsters," Olwé said. "We're not here to throw as many people as we can at the problem, that's Corypheus' job."

"That is exactly why we're here!" Leliana snapped. "We're fighting a war, and this is how we do it. We make sacrifices."

"You're sacrificing your own people!" he shouted, silencing the room. "Look at this! You're sending our allies to their deaths for _redemption_! You can _not_ use your authority to suggest mass suicide, it's wrong!"

"This is not for power, this is for victory!" she shot back. "The demons are coming all the time, our forces are still in the Arbor Wilds, and soon we won't be able to defend ourselves! The more we linger over this, the smaller our chances become. That’s why _you_ drank the water at the Well of Sorrows."

He pulled back from her as though she was threatening to hit him, deeply offended. “This is not the same,” he said quietly.

She stared him down. “Victory hinges on decisions that change people, yes?”

“Not decisions to kill your own people,” Varric said.

“I don’t _want_ to kill them!” she snapped. “But how many other choices do we have?"

Olwé turned from her, making the effort to get his anger back under control. His eyes found Morrigan. She was leaning against the far wall, the only one in the room unaffected by the tension. Her golden eyes always caught him. From the moment they met, he knew she shared his gift to some degree, her wisdom nearly reaching supernatural levels. She understood the ways the world and magic worked in tandem, how to apply herself to these desperate situations in the most effective means. Even with all of that, her gaze now surprised him and filled him with a deep-seated sense of fear. She knew what he had known when he awoke that morning.

"Is it not our time, Inquisitor?" she asked quietly. Even though she was across the room, he heard every word with perfect clarity. 

" _Ma ghilana mir din'an_ ," he replied, his voice just as soft, a slight tremor in the tone.

Her golden eyes hardened, saddened at his words, but she inclined her head. " _Ma nuvenin._ "

The only person paying attention to this interaction rather than the argument taking place between the advisers was Dorian. He looked between the two, his nervousness and uncertainty returning. "What did you just say?" he asked of Olwé.

The elf opened his mouth to translate. There was an answer this time, he merely had to repeat what he'd said in terms that Dorian could understand. The problem was that he wouldn't, and Olwé himself could not bear to explain the meaning of the words beyond their barest definitions.

Then, green light, the same shade as the Inquisitor's war-weary eyes, shot through the tall windows to illuminate every crevice in the room. The arguments halted, and Olwé's hand began to glow. There was a hole in the sky once more.

"It seems Corypheus is not content to wait," Morrigan said, a melancholy in her voice as she moved to stand beside Olwé.

"He's in the Valley of Sacred Ashes," Olwé said. His knees felt weak, his stomach clenching into a painful knot. 

Morrigan turned to him, able to rise above her emotions better than he. "You either close the Breach once more, or it swallows the world," she said firmly.

"But that's madness!" Josephine exclaimed. "Wouldn't it kill him as well?"

The other advisers were silent. Josephine's confusion was too simple. The destruction of the world as they knew it ought to kill Corypheus, yes, but, after everything they had seen, there was also the surprisingly large chance that it wouldn't.

Cullen turned to Olwé, his face suddenly pale, though he kept his composure as always. "We have no forces to send with you," he said seriously. "We must wait for them to return from the Arbor Wilds."

Olwé knew this. It changed nothing. "As Leliana said," he told them, adjusting his grip on his staff, "the more we linger, the smaller our chances become." He took one more look at the newly opened Breach, then turned and marched from the room.

It took until he reached the Great Hall for people to start chasing him down.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Dorian demanded, only a pace behind.

Olwé stopped and sighed. "The Valley of-"

"Not alone, you aren't." He planted his staff in the floor directly in front of the elf, barring him from passing. "There is nowhere you can think to go that I will not follow, be it bed or battle."

His chest constricted so tightly that for a moment, he couldn't breathe. " _Ar lath ma_ ," he managed to whisper.

"And what exactly are two sappy apostates going to do on their own?" Varric called. Cassandra was right beside him, amusement breaking through her hard expression. 

Then all of them began to come. Bull, Sera, Blackwall, Cole, Vivienne, and even Solas stood around him in the Great Hall, their weapons already in hand. They had all seen the Breach reopen, and they knew the call to arms when they saw one.

"The troops may still be in the Arbor Wilds," Cassandra said, hand on the pommel of her sword, "but you are always ours to defend. You handle the Orb, Olwé. We will take care of the rest."

Olwé looked into the faces of his friends, seeing the agreement and conviction in all of their eyes. He had to cling to his staff to avoid sinking to the floor, utterly overwhelmed by their loyalty. "I could ask for no better," he said, forcing a smile through the tears he couldn't keep from falling. 

A hand rested on his shoulder, and he looked to see Morrigan at his side. "If you are ready, we must away," she said.

He gave a short nod, wiping at his face. "Right. Then let us march."

. . .

"Tell me, where is your Maker now?" boomed the chthonian voice of the ancient magister. Red lyrium glowed about the shattered temple like the very heart of a demon. "Call him. Call down his wrath upon me. You cannot, for he does not exist. _I_ am Corypheus, _I_ shall deliver you from this lie in which you linger. Bow before your new god and be spared."

The hearts of Inquisition soldiers were mightier than those of demons, be they within a commander or a scout. The two remaining soldiers of the dozen who arrived to contain the evil were no exception. They would not be remembered. They held no titles, had performed no deeds of great merit. But they were the Inquisition in body and soul, and they called out a "Never!" which rang out above the roaring of the Breach and the screeching of the demons, which stood like a wall between their beloved world and the torn world of Corypheus, which tore from their lips as the last word they would _ever_ say, and an act of defiance that they knew would end them.

Corypheus cast them aside like stones from a shoe. But that single _never_ which he disregarded so easily was only the herald of the resistance he was about to face. 

The demon which had felled the brave soldiers was felled itself only seconds after its victory, cloven in two by the sword of a holy Seeker. She strode forward without fear, without doubt, and without any intention to let the magister pass. At her back were eight others with the same deadly mindset. By her side was a small elf, his back twisted by injury and weight supported against a simple staff nearly as old as himself. 

Corypheus almost seemed to smile at the newcomers. "I knew you would come," he said.

Olwé looked up at the magister with raw, unadulterated hatred. "It ends here, Corypheus," he called.

"And so it shall."

The earth itself began to quake, and the members of the Inquisition pitched forward as the ground began to rise. The barriers of the world were breaking down, the laws of the realm shattering along with it. This was only a fraction of what would happen if Corypheus were allowed to walk free.

"Come to me, thief, interloper, _gnat_ ," Corypheus called from the pedestal upon which he'd placed himself. "We shall see who is worthy of godhood."

"Neither of us," Olwé replied. "You may be a vile product of the Darkspawn, Corypheus, but you have allowed me to learn a few things. Perhaps the gods were never anything more than what you have become, mortals who corrupted themselves for power and creation." He looked over at Cassandra, at Solas, seeing the surprise and confusion on their faces. His focus returned to Corypheus, his hands tightening with more certainty around his staff. "But they were our guides, nonetheless. It is not gods that we need, but shepherds. This is not what your are. You will fall, Corypheus, because you are nothing but a man who tried too hard to be king, and you do not know where to place your feet."

Corypheus glared down upon the elf, a scowl curling his rotted face into something yet more grotesque. "A man," he spat. "A man never had power such as this. I _will_ shepherd in the new age." He raised his hands above his head, a zealot calling down the wrath of heaven, and a mass of solid darkness arose at his back. The Archdemon let out an earth-shaking roar, climbing over the ruins of one wall to get at the Inquisition.

"Morrigan," Olwé said with unwarranted calm.

As the Demon tried to pounce, another dragon swooped in, taking the first by surprise and barreling into him so hard that they both soared away from the floating land. Corypheus watched them with enraged surprise, then turned back to Olwé. "How _dare_ you!" he cried.

A Rift opened before them, demons of all kinds pouring out. Olwé had hardly moved when Cassandra let out the first yell, and suddenly every one of his friends was running screaming into the fray. 

"The Orb," Solas said to him, urgency in his voice. "That is your only concern."

Olwé nodded, then turned back to the magister. 

There was no one who could clearly understand what happened then until it was all long over. Blood flew as much as blades and spells, demons poured from every Fade mouth Corypheus could open, only closed when Olwé could spare the moment. But there were always more. There would always be more until Corypheus was vanquished. And the magister seemed to know the danger he was in, whether or not he would acknowledge it, for he kept his distance from Olwé. He sent more demons in his stead, enemies which wore Olwé down. With this strategy, the elf wasn't certain he'd be able to do much of anything by the time he actually approached Corypheus.

He ended the life of a rage demon on the crumbling stairs and promptly collapsed afterward, his chest heaving and back burning in agony. Here, he was largely concealed. It was quiet, sheltered from the madness in the courtyard.

"Having a little rest, are we?" panted a welcome voice. Dorian approached him, crouching to one knee at his side. "Come, Amatus, the rest of us must earn our keep."

Olwé looked at him through tired eyes, shaking his head. "I'm not... as strong... as I once was," he said quietly. With those words, a memory of himself as he had once been, adventuring through the forest with his clan, hit him with the force of a bronto, and his present pain seemed so much the worse for it. He wondered if he would ever be able to summon a genuine smile again.

"And how many people would have marched right over here to stare down a magister, hm?" Dorian asked. "Your strength has always been different, Amatus, since the day I met you. It's not how many demons you can kill. It's how many you're willing to stand against."

Olwé looked up at him, finding Dorian's face far more beautiful in that moment than even the light of the sun. Perhaps Olwé would not survive the encounter with Corypheus. But there was nothing he could do if he didn't try.

He leaned forward, kissing Dorian as though this breath was his last. " _Dareth shiral, emma lath_ ," he whispered against his lips before shoving himself painfully to his feet.

Dorian blinked in surprised, then, when he realized what was said, horror crossed his face. "Goodbye? What-"

Olwé nearly slipped back down the stairs as the ground shook. The two dragons had plummeted to the earth, landing close to where the others were still fighting. "Help Morrigan," Olwé said.

Dorian looked back at him, torn between following his love and aiding his friends. Eventually, he followed the command, giving one last worried look to Olwé as he left to slay a dragon.

The elf recovered his courage, then continued his slow ascent up the steps. Ear-splitting shrieks could be heard from the Archdemon, the air practically vibrating with them, until they suddenly stopped. There was an eerie quiet once more.

Corypheus stood on this upper level, looking down upon defeat after defeat with unbridled rage. "No!" he cried, whirling on Olwé. "I am your god! I have walked the halls of the Golden City! I have crossed the ages! I am so much greater than you could ever hope to be!"

"Yet you are so lost all the same," Olwé said. 

Corypheus cried out, sending a bolt of bright red magic at the elf, strong enough to put a crater in the ground. 

It broke harmlessly around him.

Olwé's staff was planted into the ground, a translucent barrier erected around him. A lifetime ago, he had used this against a large man with a sword, and it had taken all of his strength and concentration to maintain. As Corypheus had weakened, however, Olwé had grown.

The magister reeled back, preparing for a second blow, but Olwé was faster. He sent the barrier outward, rushing forth until it slammed into Corypheus with the force of all the souls he had destroyed.

Because Olwé had learned, through his skills in Necromancy, that when Corypheus killed people to leave his path unhindered, he had done nothing more than leave an army for someone else to find. Olwé could not resurrect them, but he could call on their anger and they would be more than willing to give it.

Corypheus stumbled, reeling from the blow. "Ancient ones!" he cried, desperately trying to maintain his hold on the Orb. "If you exist - if you ever _truly_ existed - aid me now!"

They were never given the chance. Olwé raised the Anchor, feeling its relentless pull towards the Orb, and the relic shot from Corypheus' hand into his own. He lifted it above his head, holding tightly as the Breach swirled faster, collapsing in on itself until finally, with a great shudder, it closed.

The feeling of missing a step on the stairs filled the pit of Olwé's stomach, and the earth began to plummet back to where it had started. 

When the rocks had all fallen and the dust began to settle, Olwé took his staff and returned to his feet. The place seemed oddly still and quiet in the aftermath. The horrors of the last three years were suddenly, inarguably over. 

Solas entered his view, slowly approaching the shattered remains of the Elven artifact. "The Orb," he said quietly, voice filled with sorrow.

"I'm sorry," Olwé murmured.

Solas turned, seeming all the more upset by his words. "No, it isn't _your_ fault." He looked between the elf and the broken pieces, frustration showing clearly on his face. "It wasn't supposed to be this way," he said earnestly.

Olwé looked over at where Corypheus still lay on the ground, moaning softly from the vicious defeat. "I know," he said, and the words nearly got caught in his throat. 

Solas looked up at him, knowing what Olwé was about to do. "Whatever happens now, know that you will always have my respect," he said as he got to his feet.

Olwé inclined his head, knowing Solas was about to leave, as well. "And you, mine," he said, putting a hand to his chest. He walked past Solas, approaching the felled magister, and knelt. "It's over, Corypheus," he said lowly. "But you tore open the Fade, allowed your corruption to spread as far and wide as it could. Someone else must fix what you've broken, and _you_ must atone for it." He rose to his feet, the Mark on his hand beginning to glow in earnest.

"What are you doing?" Corypheus growled, true fear shining in his eyes.

"You wreaked chaos in the Fade," Olwé said, his voice calm though his heart and eyes burned. "Now it needs a Pathfinder." He held his hand out to the magister, who still tried desperately to get away though he was too weak to do so. 

A final Rift opened between them, and when it closed, they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck elven apostates, man, fuck 'em all.


	14. In These Straits I See My West

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People asked for an epilogue of sorts and I thought it was really dumb that I didn't give one so here it is.

Dorian being too quiet was usually never a problem. Getting him to shut up was the trick that no one could perform with any consistency. Yet it had been four days, and hardly a word had passed the mage's lips. 

A celebration had been raging in all that time, though it became yet more half-hearted for every rung of rank until one could find members of the inner circle staring into their tankards with blank confusion. Infantry soldiers danced in the courtyard while a Qunari, a dwarf, and a man sat in the tavern like the battle had been lost, anyway.

Still, regardless of motive, the complete change in character wasn't fun for the Iron Bull to watch. He pushed the bottle of spirits towards Dorian, encouraging any motion at all. 

"C'mon, Sparkler," Varric said quietly. "No body, no death, right? He knew what he was doing."

"I know he did, and that's the problem," Dorian said, still staring at his mug instead of his friends. "Do you know what he said to me that morning? The first words I heard when I woke? 'Whatever happens today, know that I love you.' Little shit knew exactly what he was doing and that was my only warning." He took a long drink and, finding the bottom of the mug, seized the bottle for another round.

Varric and Bull shared a glance, then the Qunari shook his head. "I was really waiting for him to come down those stairs. Stupid smile and everything."

"That right there needs to stop," Dorian said, pointing a warning finger at him.

"Would it be weird to say I wasn't?" Varric said. "You heard Morrigan when he didn't show up. 'So he's returned what should never have been his.' He never talked about going back to his clan, did you ever notice that? He knew he wasn't to see the other side of this."

"So why bother with all the rest?" Dorian asked desperately. "Why let me get all tangled up in this? Why become the thing we all so desperately needed just to have him leave?"

"Pretty sure that wasn't his fault," Varric said.

Bull grabbed the bottle and refilled his own tankard. "He's not dead, though, right?" he said. "We can say he's not dead?"

"Oh, as though the reality is any better," Dorian said, voice laced with scorn. "If he's not here and he's not dead, then he's leaped into the Fade to try and fix things from there, and currently _every_ mage who knows one whit about that is gone." He took another long drink, scowling in disapproval as he finished. "I'm swearing off associating with anyone who's in touch with the spirits. They're no help at all."

"So you're just gonna stay angry with him, huh?" Varric said.

"Of course I'm angry!" he snapped. "He left all of us to go frolick about in the Fade! And if not that, then he's been assumed body and soul into Andraste's blessed arms, in which case I'd like a bloody sign for all this trouble!" He slumped down in his chair, eyes shining even as he tried to keep up the blustering anger. "He _convinced_ me there wouldn't be an 'after,'" he said more quietly.

Bull felt pity for the mage stir in his stomach. It wasn't easy for any of them to deal with the disappearance of Olwé, but it was especially hard for Dorian. There had been a lot of hopes for the future dashed to pieces when the elf didn't come back down those stairs at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. 

Cassandra was the only other one who had tried to be angry about it. She'd thrown things, shouted at scouts to search the ruins, desperately challenged the will of the Maker as she'd done too many times in the last three years. Eventually, however, she'd emerged from the shrine near the gardens with her anger spent and faith strangely restored. Her energy now was devoted to keeping the Inquisition alive, and when anyone asked about Olwé, her only reply was, "He is helping us in other ways now. I don't know when we will see him again."

Bull wished she'd stop saying the last part, for Dorian's sake. She made it sound like there was a chance of him coming back. If they'd learned anything from Warden Stroud, it was that people on a mission in the Fade weren't supposed to come back out.

It was far too late when Dorian had enough of the company and too much to drink. He ached to be alone in his room, with a book, preferably to throw it. Reading didn't interest him. Nor did experimenting, theorizing, or lovemaking. Damned Dalish had taken everything good in the world with him. Vivienne tried to tell him that "it will take time, darling, but you'll get back to it." Maker, that woman infuriated him. How could she know? How could she possibly understand what it was to lose the very sunlight in his life? There was no recovering from this, not for him.

He stumbled into his room, needing to catch himself on the wall before he tipped completely over. With the vertigo came another wave of burning tears. He willingly gave himself over, too tired of holding it all back.

" _Crying, pain, anger, oh, it's all my fault, I've done it wrong."_

With a choked hiccup, Dorian whirled to see Cole perched upon his bureau, casually bumping his heels against the cedar. "Wh- Cole, what-" 

"He's very upset that you're upset," said the spirit. "I asked him if I should help, and he said yes." 

He could have just been drunkenly hearing things, but at this moment, he didn't care. He tripped forward, seizing Cole by the arms. "Cole, you - you've seen him? You know where he is?" 

After a moment of being startled, the boy nodded. "Yes. It... took me a while. He is the one that finds things, not me. I can only see him when he has a moment to be found." 

"What does that mean?" Dorian shook his head. "Never mind. What did he say? When is he coming back?" 

Cole cocked his head, as though listening. "He says... _If I'm going to be fixing the Fade, you ought to be fixing Tevinter._ " 

Dorian's grip slackened and he stepped back, forced to the floor when his legs no longer held him up. He could hear the echoes of Olwé's voice, could nearly picture the teasing smile. Even that shadow of the elf drove the encroaching darkness from his heart. "He sent me a message from the Fade and couldn't even add an 'I love you'?" he joked weakly. 

Cole cocked his head again, still bumping his heels on the bureau. "He can't say it," he said simply. "There is too much in it, he can't make the feeling into words. He says, _Abelas, ma vhenan, I can't_. But he wants to, Dorian, and he wishes there were words." He finally slid off the bureau and stood above the mage, his hat somehow still hiding his eyes even at this angle. "He has to go now. But I will teach him. I will show him the doors that go in and out. One day he can visit here, but he will have to learn." 

Dorian didn't want him to leave so soon. He wanted to reach into the Fade and pull him back out, hang the chaos happening on the other side. But Cole's promise was enough to hold him together, at least for that moment. "Tell him...." Maker, now he saw the problem. There was too much to say, so much that could have been summed up if he was just allowed to kiss the damn elf. "Tell him I'll be waiting." 

At this, Cole smiled. "That makes him happy. And you are happy. I've helped." 

A smile weary with relief pulled at Dorian's mouth, and he let himself slump on the floor by his bed. "Yes, Cole," he said quietly. "You've helped more than you can know." 


End file.
